


The Duke of Hogsmeade

by stitchy



Series: Dumbledore's Résumé [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, Fear of Heights, Gen, Gratuitous descriptions of candy, Hogsmeade Village, Honeydukes, Paris (City), Young Albus Dumbledore, wizard fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: Before returning to Hogwarts as a professor, Albus Dumbledore spends some time kicking around the wizard world soul searching and trying his hand at a number of occupations. His favorite stop along the way is being a confectioner at Honeydukes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- Highest Honor is being on a Chocolate Frog Card  
> \- All his passwords are candy related  
> \- Secret tunnel between Honeydukes and Hogwarts???
> 
> You do the math.

-1900-

     Everyone who frequented Grafton Street knew that the Purge and Dowse Ltd. department store was a bit odd. The fashion in the window was an entire generation out of date with outrageously striped, sun faded hoopskirts crowded together like a miniature traveling circus. The ladies of the newly born twentieth century scoffed as they passed the display in their more subtle, columnar styles. Even the supposedly state-of-the-art sewing machine that was on special sale was a prehistoric eyesore. There was no explanation for the store’s continued existence, as it never appeared to have customers within, only the occasional sartorially-challenged lingerer. One such lingerer, was Albus Dumbledore.

     There was no missing the large splotches of green and yellow goo that marred his otherwise ordinary suit. He stood in the middle of the pavement, facing away from the window but repeatedly looked over his shoulder at it like someone might come crashing out of the glass. When the mannequins only looked on in disinterest, Albus grinned to himself. Though he was wringing ooze out of his hat, his spirits were high for the first time in months- ever since he started at St. Mungo’s, in fact. He didn’t know who he was kidding, working there in the first place. His impulse decision to intern as a Healer came on the heels of tragedy and everyone in the hospital knew it. Albus was allowed to lick his wounds alongside the patients of the Janus Thickey Ward for Permanent Spell Damage, but by the end of a year it was apparent that even guilt as deep as his couldn’t keep him there forever. The practical skills required by the job were matched by his talent, and the spellwork was interesting from a theoretical standpoint, but he simply didn’t have the emotional wearwithal for the job. Most of the people in their care were beyond help and his already battered heart had had enough sorrow. He stuck it out long enough for the new class of interns to arrive so as not to leave the ward in a lurch, then tendered his resignation that very night. Finally quitting, finally _moving on_ had come as a great relief. Albus only wished he hadn’t unwittingly spurned a witch so proficient with a Bat-Bogey Hex on his way out. Fellow intern Mina Pinkley had been very hurt that his reason for pulling her aside for a private word had been courtesy rather than courtship.

     Unsure of where to go next, Albus waited for an unobserved moment to pull out his wand for a cleaning charm. Although the lamplight did not reveal the magical nature of his dishevelment, a passing family of muggles gave the grubby-looking Albus a wide berth as they walked by and he was duly mortified. Once he’d put himself right, an empty cab slowed to see if he might hail it, but Albus waved it on, knowing there was nowhere it could take him that he’d want to be. With this exit from St. Mungo’s, he knew was finished with London.

     Like many wizards who were raised in quaint magical enclaves, Albus had never been much of a city boy to begin with. He quite liked the anonymity of a crowd, but not more than he hated the smoke and dreaded the towering buildings, all bearing down on him in judgement. It reminded him of the dark dreams (well- nightmares, really) he’d been plagued by since he was a child. With a sigh, he took one last look at St. Mungo’s department store disguise. He couldn’t very well go back inside to use the Floo, he disliked brooms, and it was ill advised to Apparate when he was lacking in destination, determination, and deliberation. With no other ideas, he stepped to the edge of the curb and stuck out his wand.

     The lampost closest to Albus suddenly jumped three feet to the left, pushed aside by the Imperturbable nature of the Knight Bus. The double-decker carriage leapfrogged over a wheelbarrow full of coal and a flower stall to land in front of him, just inches away. Albus drew a sharp breath- not at the near injury, but at the unexpected sight. For the first time the team of beasts pulling the Knight Bus were visible to him, one turning its skeltal head to examine him in return. Albus had seen illustrations of thestrals before and knew they pulled the carriages at Hogwarts, but he was unprepared for how leathery and soft they looked in person, like one of those Venetian masks that are pulled on a carved wooden form. They weren’t so terrible after all. He lifted a hand to touch the curious thestral’s curved beak when the coachman holding its reigns barked.

     “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned. “They haven't be fed since this morning!”

     “Me neither.” Albus had skipped lunch in an attempt to tie up loose ends by the close of his final shift. He reached for the carriage door instead and took a leg up on the wheel.

     “There’s food inside,” the coachman said, impatiently. “Where are you headed?”

     “Wherever you’re already going is fine.” Albus shrugged and climbed into the compartment.

     “Hogsmeade it is!” declared the coachman, cracking his whip.

     The carriage lurched into motion, tossing Albus against a doily covered armchair that was as good a place as any to take a seat. He tipped his squashed hat to a trio of middle aged witches on a velvet divan who clutched at each other lest they fall off. Lanterns swung from the ceiling, clattering and occasionally colliding with each other as they raced into the night. Albus ducked his head to avoid catching one to face and came nose to nose with a little house elf, scurrying between sliding chairs.

     “Would sir like a sandwich?” the elf chirped, summoning a tray to his hands with a snap of tiny fingers. The pile of sandwiches offered was just as haphazard as the rest of the bus, with mismatched breads on either side of middles that should never be combined. He was fairly certain there was tomato in the peanut butter, at any rate, and opted for what looked like an egg salad instead. The elf vanished the tray and then bowed proudly. “It’s eight hours to Hogsmeade, sir! Please let Dewey know if Dewey can make sir’s trip more comfortable.”

     “I don’t suppose,” started Albus, cradling his sandwich as the bus turned a quick corner, “-that there’s any chance of a blanket?”

     Instantly Dewey summoned a squashy stool beneath Albus’ feet and a massive folded quilt on his lap. “Sir’s chair reclines, sir!”

     Albus muffled his thanks from behind the bedding and was left to his supper. To his surprise, the egg was fresher than he had dared to hope. He munched gratefully between bouts of being plastered to the back of his seat by the speed of the Knight Bus, then nodded off to the droning sound of wheels on cobblestone.

-

     Even through the blinding mist, Albus could sense that he was much too high up. His feet were like lead and his knees threatened to buckle. He was in the highest reach of Azkaban, teetering on the top of the world in a haze of fog and suffering. London lay below, it’s tall buildings folding and gnashing like teeth, snapping at his heels as he tried to keep his balance. What was more terrible? To be imprisoned here, stripped of every comfort including sanity, or to fall into the maw of the city? Hands he could not see beckoned him closer to the edge, raking his cheek with bony fingers. _Release_ , they offered, _all it costs is a kiss._ His chin tilted first, then his body as he lost his footing and began to fall.

     Albus awoke with a start as his feet thudded to the floor of the bus. In haste to clean up for the next stop, Dewey had vanished his footstool. Despite his quilt swaddling, his whole body shook with a chill. He squeezed his eyes shut and burrowed deeper into the covers, aching with the memory of what he’d never have again. When they were little, after their father had first been taken away and the nightmares started, he could always count on Ariana for a cuddle. Since her death and the move to London, the nightmares had returned, and there was no one.

     “Just about to arrive, dearie,” said one of the matronly witches from the night before. Her bright purple hair curlers bobbed with the motion of the bus like a bag of Quint’s Quiggleworms.

     “Oh,” said Albus. He wrestled his blanket so that he might turn to look out the window. Sure enough, the same green countryside he had watched countless times out the window of the Hogwarts Express was rolling by. Their path by carriage was a bit lower and wove in and out of the bridge that supported the tracks, but he could see the shadow of the castle in the morning fog. It was like bumping into an old friend at the shops.

     The witch started taking out her curlers by wand and charming each ringlet into place as she chattered on. “You’re about Hogwarts age. Going back to school, are you? Thought you all came on the train, but then I suppose you’re a few days late for start of term. Tsk tsk, that won’t do.”

     Albus shook off both the scolding and quilt, sitting up straight. “I’ve already graduated. Two years ago. I’m going to Hogsmeade to find a job.”

     The witch patted her hair. “Well, you look a bit peaky. Mind you get either a bite or a bath first.”

     After delivering his most gracious Thank You And Goodbye smile, Albus stared back out the window. They had just passed Hogsmeade Station and were now jostling down the connecting lane that turned into High Street. As he fixed on the horizon to settle himself, he had to admit the dream Dementor encounter had made him a rather queasy, imaginary though it was. Intrusive or not, the witch had the right idea about fortifying himself with breakfast before canvassing the village.

     He had an inheritance and top notch transfiguration skills, so finding work was more a matter of keeping busy than one of immediate financial need. A position at the local book store was probably the top of his wish list, while waiting tables at Puddifoot’s was at the bottom. Dervish and Banges, Dogweed and Deathcap, the quill shop, the potion emporium- all potential employers, worth a look in. There were some establishments he knew he’d skip entirely, like Spintwitches Sporting Needs, who would laugh him out the door if he admitted that he had only suffered through only the compulsory flying lessons of first year. Then there was the risk he’d spend any paycheck as fast as he earned it at Gladrags Wizardwear, so that was out, too. Pity that. Finally, The Knight Bus came to a stop in front of the Post Office, whizzing with owls. As Albus stepped out of the carriage to the busy street he tried to picture himself working there, with blue robes and an owler’s glove. He didn’t hate it. Technically it was a Ministry job, which he had sworn to avoid, but there was something to be said for the altruism of facilitating communication.

     Before he could take a step towards the officious looking entrance to see if there were any postings on the noticeboard, another nearby shop door opened as a customer left, flooding the air with a delicious smell. It was at once sweet and bitter, dolloped in cream and sprinkled with spice. Albus followed his nose to Honeydukes, where in the window an old, balding wizard in a pinstriped apron was laying out a fresh tray of fudge. Chocolate didn’t count for breakfast unless you were French, his mother had always said- but after his terrible dream Albus thought that even a witch as strict as she might make an exception. The bell over the door seemed to tinkle in agreement as he entered.

     Inside the shop was like a raspberry buttercream, everything painted or wallpapered in matching pink and brown. Sweets of every color lined the shelves, each with their own silver scoop. There were roasted nuts, candied lime peel, bonbons, and hard candy drops all glittering in their jars and rows of bright packaging in every direction. In the center of the shop was a glass counter full of larger confections, like caramel apples and chocolate cauldrons that bubbled and popped. The wizard from the window carefully squeezed between pyramids of boxed candy to man his station by the till.

     “G’morning! Is there anything I can get for you?”

     Albus tested the weight of his coin purse as he eyed a chocolate cauldron the size of a dragon egg brimming with marshmallow. “One of those,” he pointed. “And how much for one of the pink boxes?”

     “Twenty knuts, or two for a sickle.”

     Hmm. He’d only been thinking of supplying himself, but the boxes looked just the right size for an owl. “Two then. One for delivery.”

     The wizard nodded his head as he waved his wand to summon the boxes down. “Would you like to enclose a message?”

     The little rack of gift tags floated down from above as well and nudged Albus in the shoulder until he plucked the most apologetic design for his peace offering.

     “To Healer Mindwell Pinkley at St. Mungo’s.”

     “...St. Mungo’s,” the wizard repeated, taking his sickles and scratching out the note with a quill. “From?”

     “Albus Dumbledore.”

     “...Dumble- Dumbledore?!?” the wizard startled. “ _The_ Albus Dumbledore, who published the definitive recipe for despair curing chocolate?”

     Albus blushed. Occasionally he was recognized for being Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, or the honoree of some academic award, but this was a first. “I had help,” he demured. In fifth year his Castelobruxo pen-pal’s family owned a cocoa farm, he simply theorized and they implemented.

     The wizard grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. “Leopold Tupper, delighted to make your acquaintance! Rotating the cocoa crop in soil from gigglesnaps. Inspired!”

     “Thank you.” Albus shifted his feet, suddenly forming an idea. “Is there any chance you’re hiring?”

     Tupper stumbled back in surprise, dangerously close to the stacks behind the counter. “Here!? A bright young star like Albus Dumbledore wants his first job to be in _my_ sweet shop!?”

     “Well, I already did a year at St. Mungo’s. I just came from London, actually.” Albus looked down at the box for Mina and winced. “It wasn’t a good fit. The people there were perpetually having the worst day of their life, myself included. I left because I need to see people smile- and not just because they’ve been horribly confunded. I’d rather help people be happy and healthy _before_ things go wrong for them, but-“ Albus sighed. He knew this was awfully personal to share with a stranger, especially in what had turned into a job interview, but it was a realization that he needed to share with someone and Aberforth wasn’t taking his owls. “I can’t make things better for anyone unless I start with myself.”

     Luckily, this seemed to strike a chord with Tupper’s sense of pride. He puffed up his chest and knocked the counter with his knuckles. “No one leaves Honeydukes frowning,” he declared. “Even the people who come in to buy Pity Party Peanut Clusters.”

     Albus couldn’t help but laugh. “Those clusters got me through my N.E.W.T.s! Look, I know it’s a long shot. But I love sweets, I’m good with recipes and sums, and-“

     Tupper waved his hands in surrender. “My dear boy, you’re ridiculously overqualified to be my assistant, but if you’re not above starching the Licorice Wand moulds and filling owl orders, I can get you a wage and even a room upstairs if you need it.”

     “That would be perfect,” said Albus, lighting up. Up until yesterday he was a resident at St. Mungo’s and it hadn’t yet occurred to him that he’d need to make long term arrangements here unless he planned on suddenly fixing things with his brother and Flooing in from the old house everyday. (Though he should sneak in and collect a few of his things, at some point.)

     “Why don’t you get your bearings here in Hogsmeade, and then come back at two o’clock? I can get you set up after lunch.” Beaming, Tupper fetched Albus his chocolate cauldron from behind the glass as the bell over the door chimed again. A fashionably dressed couple entered and Tupper nodded to them as he handed Albus his order. “Please enjoy!”

-

     After perusing Tomes and Scrolls for some new reading material, getting measured for fresh robes, and a lunch of hand-raised meat pie, Albus returned to Honeydukes right on time. It turned out that Tupper was establishing a new location in Paris and was in the process of building up inventory for both shops on top of juggling the influx of returned Hogwarts students. Frequent trips to France had Tupper running ragged while trying to fire his wand out of both ends. Nevermind the looming demands of the Christmas season!

     To take off some of the pressure, Albus was going to be in charge of deliveries during the day and then in the evenings train on each of Honeydukes most popular recipes, one by one. To start, Tupper introduced him to the sugar beets.

     “It’s a new plant commissioned by the King of Prussia himself- and far easier to get our hands on than sugarcane,” he explained while demonstrating the correct way to skin and dice the root. “That’s why I can afford to expand!

     After chopping, the beets were boiled and drained and then the sugar water reduced to a syrup as golden as a phoenix’s wing. They poured it out in trays to cool and crystalize, seeded by a sprinkle of sugar from an earlier batch. Then Tupper switched them out for trays of hardened molasses from two weeks prior that were ready to be broken down in the sugar mill. Albus loved the sugar mill. It was a spindly thing painted in red enamel with a funnel, a grinding wheel, and a crank. The wood of the handle was burnished by every hand that had ever worked it, and looked not unlike the handle of an heirloom wand. He ran a finger over the engraved lettering on the mill’s side.

     MADE IN BRISTOL.

     “I’ve never been to Bristol, is there a wizarding village there?”

     Tupper picked out a handful of crystalized shards to begin feeding into the mill. “Oh no,” he laughed lightly. Tupper had a way of gently correcting that Albus appreciated, as he was prone to curious conjecture and meant no harm by it. He began to turn the crank, producing a fine, glittering powder. “I bought this off a muggle baker there. We _could_ Confringo the sugar to grains,” he said, pointing his wand and demonstrating this technique as well, “-but some things are worth doing by hand, you know. Care is as important an ingredient as any other. Lots of wizards fail to account for the value of patience in favor of expediency.” Tupper waved a hand in offering. “There, try both.”

     Albus dipped a finger and sampled both the milled and magicked sugar and was surprised by the observable difference. “That’s... That’s actually sweeter,” he said. He had half-expected to feign an opinion and was taken aback that this was a new lesson for him. He had never had a particularly illuminating potions master at Hogwarts, and the best potioneers St. Mungo’s had were dedicated to the Poisons Ward, not his own. Who would have expected a confectioner to pick up the slack?

-

     His first full day working for Honeydukes, Albus ran errands on Tupper’s behalf in the morning, then set to reorganizing the cellar all afternoon. With the chaos of having filled a bulk order for the Quidditch World Cup over the past summer, and the Paris shop opening next summer, things had gotten out of hand. Tupper gave him free reign to arrange the inventory whatever way made the best sense to him. Albus lit several lamps by wand and started pulling off lids to take a look, as very little of the stock was labeled. He spent hours writing up tags for every confection he came across, and illustrated little pictograms for each. Now at a glance, he could tell lollipops from marshmallows, at least. After weighing the benefits of alphabetization versus sorting by magical effect, he settled on organizing by color. After all, most people ordering multiple chocolates would specify a shade of brown, while berry flavor lovers would tend towards the purples and reds, and mint lovers toward the greens. One by one, he floated along the barrels and crates, swapping and switching until he had before him a rainbow of sweets.

     He separated out the boxes that were filled with non-edibles; a few extra kitchen utensils and the expected packaging material, and filed it all beneath the stairs, next to a long table where he could pack deliveries and pull from the assortment of wrapping papers as needed. There was one last box that he couldn’t quite make sense of, and put aside to ask Tupper about when they had their recipe lesson that evening. It was filled with engraved brass cylinders the size of a can of beans, each with an identical mate that bore the same little carved out shapes on its surface. Some of the indentations were all the same throughout a given cylinder, while others might be a mix of stars, seashells, fruits, and gems.

     “You found the dies for the drop roller!” Tupper exclaimed. He took the box from Albus and held up one of the cylinders to the light, admiring it. “I had no idea where these had got to.”

     “They were under a huge bag of lacewings,” Albus laughed. “Don’t worry, they didn’t go off yet.”

     “Dear me, I’d forgot about the lacewings.” Tupper tipped the box of rollers from side to side, considering its contents. “We should get around to the Polygobbles soon, then. But tonight... rolled drops, I think.”

     In the kitchen, Tupper showed Albus another muggle contraption, similar to the sugar mill. It too, had a crank, but instead of a funnel had two sets of gears and pins to plug the rollers into, through which were fed wads of sugar. Albus picked out a pair that would make little bee shaped drops, and learned to align the marks on the gears so the top and bottom matched.

     “I suppose we should do honey drops?” Tupper began to compile the supplies for their batch, zipping them across the kitchen so rapidly that Albus had to dodge a saucepan.

     “Seems appropriate!” he agreed, stepping out of the way.

     Tupper summoned a honeycomb out of thin air and waved it into a cauldron. “Now, before we get mixing, the trick is to cast a warming charm on your table to keep the worked sugar soft...”

-

     With the cellar finally sorted out, Albus had the back-end of Honeydukes running smoothly in a week’s time. He’d even gotten out so many backlogged orders that they were in need of a fresh bolt of waxed paper from the grocer. Tupper gave Albus a galleon from the till and a short list.

     “Would it be all right if I stopped in at Gladrags along the way back?” Albus asked. “I have new robes that should be ready for pick up.”

     “You’re seeing Hetty?” Tupper’s face lit up and he started to smooth the hair he did not have at the top of his head. “Yes! Yes, of course. Could you bring her something from me, then?” Tupper turned on his heel and immediately started flitting about the shop, whistling a chirpy little tune. He filled a gift bag with brightly colored sweets from the rows of glass jars, and finished by dropping in a few of the honeybees they had made a few days before. “Mind she knows where they came from!”

     “It would be my pleasure.” Albus struggled not to grin too knowingly. He privately suspected Tupper had a fancy for Henriette Épingle, the proprietor of the wizardwear shop. “Anything else we need from town?”

     “That ought to do it!”

     Bag and shopping list in hand, Albus set out to The Magic Neep. It was a completely different thing to be a Hogsmeade local, he thought as he walked down the lane. No longer was he restricted to only the appointed weekends, and without school friends to drag him around, he was developing his own order of operation. For instance, it was better to duck down Hengist Avenue in the mornings to avoid the crowd in front of the Post Office and to get a whiff of the bakery instead. When he came back to the High Street, he prefered the South pavement, so he could get a better read of the specials board at the Three Broomsticks. Now he knew he could look forward to butternut soup and his favorite pudding that evening, which put a spring in his step.

     After visiting The Magic Neep, he circled back to Hengist Street to stop in for his robes. He took the scenic route through the shop to the sales counter, selecting a few ready-made accessories as he passed. As a dedicated walker, he went through socks like water, and with a new job shouldn’t he treat himself to fresh neckwear, as well? The old witch who had taken his measurements the week before was nowhere in sight, but Albus still spotted a familiar face. Her granddaughter, Lana Épingle, sat at a sewing machine near the back, pedalling the treadle. She was the first person he’d recognized from school since arriving in Hogsmeade. Lana had been a Hufflepuff two years ahead of him at Hogwarts, but Albus was reasonably outgoing and it was a small enough school he knew everyone by name, even if they’d never really socialized. It hadn’t occurred to him that Lana was in the family business, but Albus supposed it made sense, as she had always seemed unnaturally fashionable for someone confined to a student’s uniform. Even now, the bow in her sleek brown hair had the perfect pucker. As soon as her machine stopped whirring, Lana looked up and noticed him.

     “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she apologized, getting to her feet. She tapped the machine with her wand so it would keep going without her. It rattled on, shaking the table and stool she had sat at.

     “No matter.” Albus leaned his roll of waxed paper against the counter to get both hands free and fished into his sack of groceries for Tupper’s gift. “I have robes to pick up. And a little something for Madame Épingle from Mr. Tupper.”

     “Oh, she’ll like that.” Lana took the offered bag with a wink that confirmed Albus’ earlier suspicions. “Dumbledore, right? I’ll go find your things.”

     “I’m surprised you know me,” Albus said, peering around as Lana searched a rotating rack of clothes. “My first year as Prefect you were-”

     “Head Girl.” Lana turned around perfectly on cue, with Albus’ robes hooked on one finger. “I remember. You were the only Gryffindor who didn’t constantly reschedule his duties for quidditch.”

     Albus would rather escort a thousand lost first years to their common room than be caught dead flying around the pitch. “If anything that ought to make me less memorable,” he noted.  
  
     Lana shrugged. “It made you reliable.” He held out the hanger to Albus. “Please, try them on to check the fit. I’ll get Madame.”

     In the little curtained nook between racks, Albus traded his healer greens for his favorite shade of plum. Now that he wasn’t victim to the projectile fluids of St. Mungo’s patients, he was free to wear as fussy a jabot as he liked, as well. He arranged the ruffles just so and tied its bow at his throat, quite content with the result in the mirror. He’d grown two inches taller from the last time he’d commissioned robes, and was delighted to no longer see the ankle of his boot or too much cuff at the end of his sleeve. As he finished buttoning his waistcoat, he could hear the shuffle of two people reentering the shop from the back and stepped out from behind the curtain.

     Lana stood beside her grandmother with hands folded behind her back, eyes bouncing nervously between her and Albus. Madame Épingle was even more refined in her manner of dress than her granddaughter, wearing an elegant gown of midnight blue velvet that glittered at the neck and wrists. Albus wondered how she could manage to sew with such a blousy sleeve when he could hardly write a letter without spotting his with ink.

     “Bon d’accord,” Madame Épingle declared, clasping her hands and circling him. “The ‘em is good. The fit in the leg is very well. But ‘ow is the shoulder?” She swooped in and took him by the upper arms, exercising the flexibility of the fit. Albus opened his mouth, but she did not require his input. Instead, Madame Épingle turned to her granddaughter and patted her cheek. “Eglantine, you are making a fine tailor,” she cooed to her.

     “Grand-mère,” Lana sighed. Albus caught her eye as she went pink.

     “We don’t get to dress so many young, ‘andsome wizards,” she said, turning back to him. “Young people all want to look like the muggle, _quelle horreur_.”

     Albus laughed. He quite liked the streamline of a modern suit, but kept that information to himself. “Did you get the gift from Mr. Tupper?” he asked.

     “Please thank Monsieur for me,” she said, curtseying graciously. “I ‘eard there was a new apprentice at ‘Oneydukes, so I took the liberty of making you an apron.”

     Madame Épingle waved to her granddaughter, who snapped to attention and unfurled an item that had been hidden behind her back. The apron was rose colored cotton with hand embroidery on the bib. Looping letters spelled out ‘Honeydukes’ in chocolatey brown. Albus took the apron and admired the craft of it with his fingertips.

     “How very thoughtful, Madame.”

     With a satisfied smile and graceful swish of her skirts, Madame Épingle turned toward the back room again. “You are welcome,” she called over her shoulder. “Eglantine, do not charge ‘im for the apron, it is a gift!” She vanished once more through the curtains.

     “I ask her not to call me that, but-” Lana trailed off, rolling her eyes.

     Albus chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed, my aunt always insists on trotting out all three of my middle names.”

     “That seems excessive, even for a wizard,” Lana agreed with a smile. She took the apron, socks, and other odds and ends from Albus to fold into a parcel. “How are you liking it at Honeydukes? I couldn’t work there or I’d want it all for myself.”

     “I was _just_ thinking I couldn’t work at Gladrags for the same reason,” Albus admitted. “But I quite like it. Mr. Tupper is very clever, the potions work is interesting, and the customers are pleasant.”

     “Oh, just you wait!” Lana emphatically knotted the string on Albus’s bundle. “You haven’t had your first weekend overrun by Hogwarts students yet.”

     On that warning, Albus took his leave.

-

     A sea of eager children filled the shop, clamoring for their first taste of a Hogsmeade weekend. Albus restocked the shelves as quickly as he could, weaving into the nettle-like crowd of students, all wearing their black pointed hats. Packages were wrenched from his hands before he could place them, and his foot was trod on more than once.

     “If you’ve already been to the counter, please meet your friends _outside_ ,” he announced in an attempt to thin the herd.  
  
     “Oh!” The one customer who listened clutched her box of chocolates to her chest in a panic and elbowed him in the back as she struggled towards the door.

     “Merlin’s sake,” Albus grunted.

     Was he ever so small and jumpy as these children? Surely not. When he was allowed Hogsmeade visits he only took advantage a fraction of the time- he’d been too busy cramming in extra reading on his weekends. When he did visit the shops he was always on his best behavior, having had it drummed into him by his mother never to draw negative attention to the family. Even Aberforth knew better than to shove his way through a crowd. Albus rubbed the sore spot as he tabulated the supply of non-chocolate sweets in the glass jars and then clawed his way back to the cellar door for reinforcements.

     Mercifully, after his fourth run for more sugar quills, things began to slow down for the lunch hour. Tupper was ringing up a group of Gryffindor upperclassmen while another huddle of younger students loitered by the barrel of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. As Tupper handed off the customers’ bulging bags, Albus slid a fresh tray of chocolate cauldrons into the display counter beside him. “This looks like your chance to take tea,” he said. “I can hold down the shop.”

     Tupper pulled out his wand and produced a handkerchief from the tip that mopped his brow. “How’s the stock of Acid Pops? I could have sworn those Gryffs bought every last lick of ‘em.”

     “I’ll summon another box.”

     “Thank you, Albus.” Hastily, Tupper reached behind his back to untie his apron. He stashed it beneath the register and took his hat in hand. “Soon as I’m back you should take a break, too. There’s likely to be another swarm after lunch!”

     As Tupper headed out the door, Albus fixed himself with a determined but hospitable smile. No matter the job, be it shopkeeper or healer, work suited him best when it was busy. There hadn’t been any time to second guess approving Aberforth’s sale of the old house, or an opportunity to angst over what Professor Marchebanks would think of him quitting the Healer internship she had championed him for. There were owls to strap with orders, groceries to buy, and delicious smelling brews to monitor. He was certain they’d sold the last of the Polygobbles this morning, and looked forward to learning the recipe to replace them as soon as possible. The gobstoppers had variously charmed layers, one enchanted to turn the taster’s hair blue, while the next would make them hear a music box, and another would make their tongue as stretchy as taffy. He had an idea for a new layer that he would pitch to Tupper, that would make any words spoken with the Polygobble in cheek come out backwards. He chuckled to himself imagining the effect as he restocked the Acid Pops display.

     Across the shop, the three students at the Bertie Bott’s barrel continued sifting for their preferred flavors. Two of the three were clearly siblings, by their matching coloring and noses, though the sister wore Slytherin robes and the brother Ravenclaw. She held out a paper bag impatiently while he dove in with the third student, a Ravenclaw girl with long blonde hair.

     “Take some more pink ones, Lyle,” the Ravenclaw girl insisted. She scooped into the barrel of jellybeans with such vigor that the owl perched on her shoulder departed to the rafters for a more secure foothold. “I had one that tasted like a toe, once. I bet that would work!”

     Lyle dropped a handful of beans into the bag. “Maybe we should get some Bloody Blowing Gum, then?”

     “I’ll get it,” his sister sighed. She handed him the bag and stepped away to go peruse the variety of gums on the shelves nearby.

     “Thanks Lottie. Shouldn’t we get some chocolates, too?” Lyle asked his friend. “They’re bigger. I’d hate not to have enough...”

     Having finished with the Acid Pops, Albus crossed over to them. “Enough for what?” he asked. There might be some variety pack that they had overlooked.

     “For the hag!” said the girl, smiling gruesomely.

     “Delia!” Lyle blanched at the mention of it, paper bag crumpling in his grasp.

     His sister Lottie turned around from the shelves, a box of Bloody Blowing Gum in hand. “Thaddeus Nott told him that we’d better have something to distract the hag that stalks Carriage Copse,” she said evenly. “Or else she’ll drag us into the forest and eat us.”

     “But, if we toss a bunch of toe tasting sweets into the hedges, we ought to be okay,” reasoned Delia. Of the three children, she alone sounded excited by the prospect of encountering a hag.

     Albus hated to discourage a positive outlook, but couldn’t help shake his head.

     “Will that not work, sir!?” Lyle looked worried.

     “I assume this is the first Hogsmeade weekend for all of you, and that Thaddeus Nott is known bully?” he asked.

     Lottie drew herself up, tallest of the three. “Yes. And Nott’s a brute. He always picks on my brother for being friends with girls!”

     Lyle shrugged. “I can’t help it my twin is girl, or that me and Delia get partnered in class all the time since Pickering-Bell and Pluckrose are next to each other in the roll call. Am I supposed to want to be friends with him, instead? All he and his smelly old mates care about is quidditch.”

     “Hey!” barked Lottie. “Quidditch is more interesting than collecting chocolate frog cards.”

     “I’ll have back my Ignatia Wildsmith card if that’s the way you feel about it,” Delia smirked.

     Lyle rolled his eyes but patted his sister’s shoulder kindly. “At least it’s not your whole personality, Lottie.”

     Albus nodded along. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I think Thaddeus Nott is shaking you down for free sweets,” he said.

     Delia wilted in disappointment. “There’s no hags in Hogsmeade?”

     “Oh, there are, but candy is certainly not going to distract them.”

     All three children exchanged alarmed looks, eyes wide.

     “Carriage Copse is safe. And just stick to the High Street pubs, you’ll be all right,” said Albus, smoothing his apron casually. “Hags prefer younger children than you unless you’re _extremely_ careless.”

     Lyle gulped and Lottie stepped in front of her brother protectively. Delia took the bag of jellybeans they had picked out and dumped them back into the barrel with a grin. “In that case- I guess we should get the things _we_ want to eat. Right, Duke?”

     “Hmm?” Albus nearly looked over his shoulder to see if she was addressing someone else.

     “You’re Duke, aren’t you? It’s what your apron says,” she said, pointing.

     When Albus tipped his chin to look down he realized the long looping bow of his necktie had obscured the spelling of Madame Épingle’s embroidery. He’d never had a nickname more interesting than ‘Al’, and it was such a charming misunderstanding that he couldn’t bring himself to correct it. “Right,” he smiled. “Well, the chocolate cauldrons are fresh from the kitchen, if I may make a suggestion.”

-

     In the run up to Halloween Albus spent most of his time either elbow deep in jack-o’-lanterns or fetching more pumpkins from the farms at the edge of the village. He floated them down the country road a dozen or so at a time, spinning and swirling around each other like an astronomical model of the planets. Little pre-Hogwarts age children stopped playing in their front gardens as he passed and rushed to the road, cheering and jumping until he summoned pumpkins down to spin on their fingertips. Thestrals from the Forbidden Forest watched him from the treeline, their heads cocked curiously. When he got the pumpkins back to Honeydukes they made popular gift baskets and displays, as well as a fantastic fudge. Albus kept one of the jack-o’-lanterns he carved for himself, though.

     It sat on top of the bureau in the little room Tupper had provided him above the shop. It’s triangular eyes watched over him while he wrote his personal correspondence in the evening, or skimmed the latest muggle research on statistical mechanics. He stared back at the eyes as he struggled to fall asleep at night. Since coming to Hogsmeade his tower top nightmares had dropped off somewhat, which was a relief, but so had any pleasant dreams. Oneiromancy had never been a particular interest of his, but somehow sleeping felt like a waste of time without dreaming.

     The night before Halloween, Albus was uncomfortably aware of every tick of the clock next to the jack-o’-lantern until its hands overlapped at twelve. He sighed. He might resort to taking a Wideye Potion and resume his reading if he didn’t drift off in the next hour. When he closed his eyes again the two glowing triangles still burned in his retina and converged into one. As its pointed shape filled with a circular iris only reminded him of one thing, perhaps he should not have been surprised by what he finally dreamt that night.

     Rain fell in a ragged curtain outside the window and made the air inside the workshop taste like fresh cut wood. He was someone else, someone whose physical manner hew knew well as he prowled in the darkness. His eye roved over the countertop, dismissing every detail that was not the one he sought. This is what the painful, self-inflicted experiments on his own Sight had been for, and now he would know what he was looking for when it appeared. The presence of it was palpable already. There were thousands of wands scattered here, each with its own voice and temperament, but only one so ancient and layered with voices to speak louder than all the rest. It lay amongst four others of similar shape and length that he brushed aside. He couldn’t be fooled by imitators, and it would be an insult to the higher calling of the quest to allow forgery of this one true wand to continue. Fingers wrapped tight around his prize, he vaulted onto the window sill, laughing at the old wandmaker who was too late to stop him. He leapt. Then he fell, like the rain.

     Somehow, Albus didn’t startle when he woke. He burrowed deeper into his pillow to will himself back to sleep. The particulars of dreams always seemed to wash away if you fell asleep without pondering them first. He slept fine until morning, but when he picked up his wand the next day, he was for a moment surprised that it was not the dream wand.

-


	2. Chapter 2

     On a slow Tuesday morning during one of Tupper’s trips to Paris, Albus found himself bent over a number of goblin texts when he had an unexpected epiphany. Ever since the Gringott’s broker who had finalized the sale of the Dumbledore homestead had turned her nose up at the offer of a Honeydukes confection, he had been trying to devise a treat for the palate of the magical world’s most overlooked clientele. In combing through Ivor Dillonsby’s rather biased accounts of wizard-goblin cultural exchange for details of their culinary arts, he encountered something odd. Dillonsby was scandalized by the goblin practice of diluting dragon’s blood in milk and asserted that such a caustic material must never be consumed so blithely, but it seemed possible that in his disgust he was misunderstanding which substance was diluting which. Albus grabbed a nearby sugar quill and scribbled down a few words on the back of a wrapper. _Antibacterial conduit, endothermic monotremes???_ He would need to make several inquiries for himself, but he could feel his mind creeping at the edge of a hunch with wild and wide reaching implications. He filled the rest of the wrapper with notes on which questions to investigate with which experts when he had the chance. When he had made use of nearly every square inch, he wrote a tiny reminder in the margin to send Bodgilda the goblin a thank you of some kind. He folded the wrapper and stowed it safely in his waistcoat pocket just as the bell over the door rang.

     Lana Épingle stepped into Honeydukes. As usual, her immaculate hair was piled high atop her head, though she seemed to have forgotten her hat on her way out. “Good morning, Albus!” she called, hurrying up to the counter. “I only have a moment!”

     “What can I do for you?” Albus asked, pushing aside some scrolls in a perfunctory show of being tidy.

     Lana gave his reading materials a cursory glance, but elected not to ask what use he had for _Snagfing’s 101 Ways To Sear a Seer and Other Recipes._ “Well, I’ve secured a contract with the Ministry for a new set of robes for the Wizengamot-”

     “That’s wonderful, congratulations!” Albus beamed.

     Lana blushed. “Thank you! I’m going to be utterly sick of cartridge pleats by New Year’s, but it’ll be worth it.”

     “Goodness, I can only imagine.” It would be a substantial boon for a little shop like Gladrags to get such a large order, but while a batch of fifty of any sweet in the shop might take him an afternoon to fill, that was likely not the case with even one set of ceremonial robes. The ones he had worn during his time as British Youth Representative were full of complicated structural details that were disguised by their dark, solid color.

     “Grand-mère insists on having a special dinner tomorrow to celebrate, but as far as I can tell the only person she’s invited is Mr. Tupper. He’s a lovely man, of course, but you know how it is when you get the two of them in a room...”

     “Ah.” Albus nodded his understanding. “You’re hoping I’ll come too, so you don’t have to be their fifth wheel?”

     “I’d enjoy your company. If you don’t have anything better to do,” added Lana. Her gaze fell warily on the stack of goblin research as though it might win out over her invitation.

     “I’ll be there,” Albus assured her. “Should I bring something? I’ve got a pumpkin turnover recipe I’ve been perfecting.”  
  
     Lana breathed a sigh of relief. “As long as it’s not one of Snagfing’s.”

     The next day, Tupper arrived home from Paris with a number of parcels tucked under his arm. Albus helped put away the supplies and filled him in on his ideas for goblin sweets. It was worth investigating the possibilities with dragon blood, of course, but he also had a notion to use truffle oil to appeal to the pungent flavors goblins liked. The flavor was light enough that there might be a crossover appeal for witches and wizards. As Tupper already had business in France, it would be easy to import a small stock of truffles without sinking an inadvisable amount of money in the venture. Tupper had long prided himself on having something special for everyone in his shop, and listened intently as Albus suggested how to make that claim just a little more accurate. Over dinner that evening, he praised his apprentice to Madame Épingle just as she praised her own.

     “They are so industrious, are they not? All day Eglantine ‘as been sketching,” she told Tupper. “She would like to reimagine the design, as the Wizengamot robes ‘ave not changed in a ‘undred years.”

     They went back and forth like this throughout the meal and into tea and dessert, often referring to Albus and Lana but not quite including them in the conversation as they had eyes only for one and other. Aside from being constantly disregarded, Albus thought their romantic preoccupation with each other was rather nice. Unfortunately, he knew how rare connection like that could be.

     “Will they let you change them?” he asked Lana, as their elder dinner companions carried on, heedless.

     Lana stirred her tea thoughtfully. “If I can get it approved, I’d like to make the robes unisex, for a start. I think that now crinolines have gone out again, the witches of the court are hoping for something more comfortable to sit in- so they’ll agree. I can’t get away from the ridiculous headwear, though.”

     Albus chuckled, thinking of the ornate steepled hats of the Wizengamot. They had a way of making a bench full of jurors look like a garden rake. “You don’t like the hennins?”

     “I’m thinking a tall Canterbury cap might be a breath of fresh air.” Lana mimed a muffin like shape at her head. “I’ll be visiting Hogwarts this weekend so I can research the portraits. There might be something there worth drawing from.”

     “Have you considered visiting the National Gallery?” Albus surprised himself by endorsing a trip to London. He did admire the public-spiritedness of the muggles to make some of their cultural treasures accessible to the masses, rather than hidden away in thickly enchanted vaults.

     “That’s a good idea, actually-”

     Just then Madame Épingle butted in to their conversation. “We should all visit Paris, don’t you think? Leopold, I ‘ave not been back in years. We could see your new shop.”

     “That reminds me...” Tupper pulled out his wand and gave it a wave. One of the small packages he had not had Albus unpack earlier appeared in front of him. He slid it across the table to Madame Épingle who seized it with delight. When the twine was untied and the wrappings pulled away, she held a glass orb filled with little white sprinkles and water, floating around a silver model of a spire. “You should see what the muggles have built,” Tupper explained. “The Eiffel Tower is the tallest structure ever raised by man! Taller even than Azkaban!”

     “That’s... very tall.” Albus shuddered.

     “How beautiful,” said Lana, gently taking the globe from her grandmother. She swirled its waters as she admired the little tower inside. “I would love to see it. What do you think, Albus? Should we get out our brooms sometime and fly over for a better look?”

     “Well,” he cleared his throat and braced his hands on the edge of the table. He felt very cold all of the sudden. “I don’t think we could all get away from Hogsmeade at the same time. I mean, who would run the shops here? Christmas will be here before you know it, and you have the Wizengamot order to fill...”

     Tupper clapped Albus on the shoulder and laughed. “My boy, you talk as though I won’t give you a holiday! What about when shops close for Christmas?”

     “Maybe we could see it in the snow.” Lana passed the globe to Albus.

     He stared into the glass, keeping his hands absolutely still so the flurry inside came to rest at the foot of the little tower. He would be able to talk his way out flying into Paris and looking down on the real Eiffel as he did now, but he was unlikely to avoid seeing it entirely. Eventually he’d end up in Paris to help Tupper with the new shop, and it would be Cairo all over again. When he had been honored at the International Alchemical Conference a few years ago, his host had insisted on some sightseeing that he was too concerned with being polite to refuse. As soon as they apparated to the Valley of the Kings in Giza he fell to the sand in a dead faint. His cheeks burned remembering the worried owl he had received from his mother in the aftermath. Had he incurred a Mummy’s Curse? Was he well enough to come home, or would she have to send his Aunt Honoria to cure and collect him? There was no rationalizing it to himself, let alone his host in Cairo or his mother.

     “We’ll see,” he said.

     He could hear his own childish voice harping back at his mother, every time she wouldn’t commit to plans because of his sister’s health.

_'We’ll see’ means ‘No!’_

-

     As it turned out, Albus wasn’t entirely exaggerating when he cited the upcoming Christmas season as reason to stay in Hogsmeade. As soon as the first November frost came, the villagers began to get into the holiday spirit, decorating their homes with garlands and seeking seasonal treats. When he wasn’t owling gift orders, he was extruding rods of sugar in midair and looping them into candy canes or dolloping marshmallow into miniature snowmen. To keep up with packaging, he modified a protean charm to simultaneously wrapper hundreds of chocolate bars.

     On top of his responsibilities to keep the shop humming along, he began juggling a sudden popularity with students on their Hogsmeade weekends. It started when one weekend happened to coincide with a full moon, the Pickering-Bell twins and their friends quizzed him about werewolves while he pulled taffy in the shop window. A crowd of third years who must have had the same exam gathered, chiming in with hypotheticals about vampires and whether or not certain curses crafted to attack wizards worked on a being of such an altered state. By the next Hogsmeade weekend, he was getting anxious requests to proofread essays.

     “Hey Duke, do you think it’d count as cheating to pop a Pepper Imp during a practical exam?” asked Delia Pluckrose, the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas break. She stood at the counter where Albus was decorating buttercreams, deeply contemplating a package of the firey sweets. The owl that sat on her shoulder kept trying to nip at the crinkling bag. “Isambard, no!”

     “Of course that would be cheating! We can’t do that,” said Lyle.

     “Are you trying to spew smoke?” Albus asked, doing his best to ignore the flapping owl. He hunched intently over his tray of chocolate shelled buttercreams, piping little zigzags, X’s, and O’s on top to denote their filling.

     Lyle wrested the Pepper Imps from his friend and put them back on display. “We can’t get our Fumos Duo charms to work properly and it’s a requirement for this unit of defensive spellwork.”

     That explained it. Albus traded one piping bag for another and moved on to the next row of buttercreams. “You know, the smoke from Pepper Imps wouldn’t be the right color, anyway,” he said, to soften their disappointment. Albus had to admit it would have been a clever workaround, and so often the basis of good charms work was lateral thinking. It was a shame that however clever, their professor would know the difference and then they would likely be penalized. Especially if their examiner was the strict Professor Black. He’d never seen eye-to-eye with Albus’ penchant for innovation, either.

     Lyle frowned. “Thanks anyway, Duke.”

     Delia sagged. Even Isambard the owl looked discouraged. “I suppose we can make up for a poor mark with extra work over the holiday.”

     Albus stopped piping and glanced at the little clock on top of the till to check the time. He didn’t have much else planned for the evening, as he was still waiting on Tupper’s next trip to France for ingredients to experiment with goblin sweets. A glance back at the downtrodden Lyle and Delia made up his mind. “ _But_ ,” he said, “If you come back in two hours when we close, I’ll teach you how to work the charm myself.”

     “Really?” Instantly, Lyle brightened. “You’d tutor us? Can Lottie come too? She’ll be done with quidditch practice by then.”

     “I don’t see why not.” Albus resumed his work with a grin as the two skipped off.

     When he closed up shop later that evening, Albus made sure to pocket a few candy drops and a bag of Pepper Imps even if it was just for fun. He waited out front for the trio of friends, careful not to step in the slush that remained after an unseasonably warm day, and soon enough they appeared. Lottie carried her broom over one shoulder while the two Ravenclaws marched in step behind her, wands out, already practicing their casting movements. He lead them to a spot at the edge of the village near Carriage Copse, where they’d easily be able to catch their ride back to Hogwarts in time for dinner, but also have a bit a cover. The woods were thin here, and there were hedges, rocks, and trees dripping melting snow which made for good transfiguration fodder.

     The students showed Albus what of Fumos Duo they were capable of first, and then he went about correcting each. Lyle was prone to dropping his elbow, which had his wand producing only a gust of hot air, while Lottie’s smoke was faintly pink instead of dark red due to mispronunciation. Delia’s footwork was too tight, causing her smoke to blow back into her own eyes. There were coming along well for third years, all things considered, they just needed polish. When the (appropriately colored) smoke cleared, they still had some free time before the carriages back to Hogwarts would depart.

     Albus tossed each a sweet as a prize for their good work. Isambard hooted indignantly, as none was offered to him. “I promise you wouldn’t like it, Isambard,” he assured the owl. “Is there anything else on the exam you’re worried about?”

     Delia raised her hand slightly. “I- I know the spell to reverse disillusionment, well enough, but...” she trailed off and gestured vaguely with her wand.

     “You can only work it if you already knew where the target is?” Albus guessed. It was a common enough problem for those in the early stages of learning to duel. “Very well. What about you two?” he asked the twins.

     “I could use some practice,” admitted Lottie.

     Lyle shrugged. “I actually do all right with that.”

     The two girls nodded in agreement. “He’s very sensitive,” they said, practically in unison.

     “Ugh!” Lyle rolled his eyes. “You always say that. I’m _not_.”

     “I don’t mean emotionally,” Lottie tried to explain, turning to her brother.

     “I do now,” Delia laughed into her sleeve.

     Lottie waved it off as her brother huffed. “I mean, you are a little. But you do _notice_ things, more than other people. It’s like a reflex.” She turned to Albus and shook her head. “He’d be a decent Seeker if he ever bothered to give it a try.”

     “How about Delia versus Lottie, and loser duels Lyle?”

     When all three agreed Albus took out his own wand. Sweeping both arms through the air, he drew a circle in white light that expanded until its diameter could accomodate a napping dragon, then lowered it to rest all around them, defining the arena. Lottie tucked her woolen cape back over her shoulders for freer movement. Her Slytherin quidditch pinney peeked out, splashing the wintery scene with its sole trace of green. Delia shooed Isambard to a safe branch just outside of the circle and draped her bulky scarf there as well. Albus and Lyle retreated to the edge while the two girls stood at opposite sides and then spun their wands overhead to wrap themselves in Disillusionment charms. As he had spent countless hours competing as a duelist and observing the tells of the charm, Albus could easily pick out the seam in reality that each left behind as long as they remained still. It was like seeing something out of the corner of one’s eye. Instinct had a way of sensing things that were hard to discern by staring at them head on.

     “A bow to your opponent, please.” Albus watched for the shimmer of confirming movement. “And one, two, three!”

     There was simultaneous unseen movement as each girl attempted to obscure their position, but also fire off close to where they expected the other might be. In a flash of light, Delia used the counter charm as her first measure, while Lottie opted for Immobulus. Both misfired, but only Delia’s gave a visual clue to her new position.

     “Titillando!” said Lottie, now a few yards left of where she started. A glowing bolt of purple with finger-like tendrils flew across the circle.

     Delia squeaked as the spell missed, and was heard.

     “Titillando!” Lottie cast again, continuing to dodge left.

     This time the purple hand caught Delia. She kept moving and giggling as the spell tickled her. “Silen- Silencio!” she cast on herself, to keep from spoiling her own secrecy. The half cast spell only half muffled her laughter.

     “Good thinking to reduce instead of reverse the effect, Delia!” Albus called. “Finite Incantatem might have reversed your Disillusionment as well.”

     Still giggling but emboldened, Delia wheezed another spell. “Area Murus!”

     “Petrificus Totalus!” Lottie fired, but it rebounded off of Delia’s invisible wall and sailed out of the circle.

     Albus could tell by the dithering edge of her disillusionment that Lottie was unsure if she ought to determine the shape of the wall by touch or get clear of it entirely. Delia had a different problem. In putting up her wall she had backed herself into a patch of mud that revealed her foot prints, though neither girl had seemed to realize it just yet. Next to Albus, Lyle squinted. He had certainly noticed. “Look down!” he shouted.

     “Oh no!” The footprints shifted slightly. Delia would have to decide if it was wiser to stay put while she had the protection of the wall, or to get out of the mud. Neither girl would be able to fulfill the goal of making the other reappear so long as they stayed where they were. Someone would have to take a risk.

     “Invention does not consist in creating out of void but out of chaos,” Albus quoted, hoping it would inspire the duelers to use a little chaos to their advantage.

     Lyle elbowed him. “Isn’t that one of Headmaster Fronsac’s sayings, Duke?”

     “He got it from Mary Shelley, in fact,” Albus grinned. “If you’re having trouble with your charms work, you should read your muggle literature, you know. Without magic they come to all sorts of ingenious solutions.” He sidestepped a levitating glob of mud as it flew out of the circle. “Very good, use your surroundings!”

-

     With Christmas falling on a Tuesday, Tupper decided to close Honeydukes for the rest of the week. During the holiday, he and Madame Épingle were touring Paris, the invitation to which Albus had avoided with the pretense he was trying to get a hold of his Aunt Honoria to see about a get together. There was no danger of that happening, of course, as she preferred to winter in the Southern Hemisphere to keep her recurring bouts of Vanishing Sickness in check. Ultimately, Albus passed his Christmas alone with a good book, which was really not so lonely as it sounded. Despite most of the other Hogsmeade shops being closed, he still had his meals at the Old Inn, where the merry murmur of the crowd kept him company. It wasn’t family, but there were plenty of familiar faces from the village and the odd well-wishing acquaintance from his school days. He didn’t hear from Aberforth and he didn't expect to, but Isambard did swoop by on his walk home from the Old Inn with a postcard reporting that everyone had made it through the exam with high marks. Albus tucked it into his copy of _Managing the Magical Classroom_ for safekeeping.

     In the days that followed he decided to hike along the shore of the Great Lake, where he could stretch his legs and perhaps do some fishing. There was a lovely path that started near Hogsmeade Station, where the boats for Hogwarts first years embarked. Albus packed two books, a rod, dry socks, and some leftover roast goose in case the graylings didn’t bite, and donned his warmest cloak to set off down the High Street. As he passed the village square, bustling with carolers and portkey arrivals, he felt borderline festive.

     “Albus!” called one of the arrivals, coming down the steps from the plinth in blur. She pulled down her hood and patted her hair to check it was still in place after her journey.

     “Lana!” He stopped in his tracks. “I thought you were in Paris?”

     “I left early!” Other arrivals jostled them as they stood still in the middle of the commotion, causing Albus to dodge between pedestrians to maintain eye contact as Lana approached. “I thought those two might like some time on their own,” she laughed as she stopped short of being overrun by a frantic house elf carrying groceries. Her face was already quite red from the cold air, but Albus had the notion she would blush if it were possible. Lana finally escaped the throng and joined him at the side of the road.

     “I suppose you must have to get back to the Wizengamot robes?”

     “Not just yet.” Lana caught her breath.  Where were you off to? Am I keeping you?”

     “I was going for a hike by the lake. You’re welcome to join me.”

     With a twirl of her wand Lana sent her hatbox flying down the street, where it took a right turn on Blantyre Ally towards Gladrags. “Don’t mind if I do.”

     Albus offered Lana his arm, to walk. “And did Mr. Tupper pick a location for the new shop?”

     “He’s narrowed it down to three options.”

     As they made their way to the lake Lana filled him in on the shopping in Place Cachée, her favorite dinner at the Griffon Buveur, and of course- her tour of the Eiffel Tower.

     “It was my first time in a lift, you know. All those machinal parts. I think it must be a bit like my sewing machine to make it go up and down. And then once you’re high up top you can see the river and palaces and the whole city, all at once. I don’t know how or why they built it, but it was certainly a marvel.”

     “Something to do with a centennial,” muttered Albus, pulling away before Lana could get any more descriptive. He left the path and bent to pick up a stone, eager for anything else to think about. Though he skipped the stone across the lake as hard as he could it bounced only once before it sank. Scooping up three more, he tried again and again, with worse results. He didn’t turn back to look, but he could feel Lana watching him and he realized he was making rather a spectacle of himself.

     “That reminds me,” she said. “They’re bringing back the ball at Mumrill’s for the first time in two hundred years.

 _Another damn tower_ , Albus thought bitterly. Why couldn’t anyone settle for a nice, low-built monument? Out of stones to throw, Albus stared into the depths of the lake with his arms hanging limp at his sides. “Is that so?” he asked. He was not hoping for follow up details.

     “Well, they’ve moved it off the solstice to New Year’s Eve,” Lana said, “-but I wondered if you might escort me.”

     Albus turned around to face her. “I-”

     “What do you say, would you like to dance on the _top of the world_?” Hands clasped, Lana looked up into the sky dreamily.

     Suddenly it occurred to Albus this was not merely a sightseeing opportunity for Lana. His mind raced for excuses other than the unspeakable. A hundred feet up in the air or not, it was unbecoming to monopolize the social calendar of a witch of a certain age that one had no intention of courting. This was just the sort of nebulous business that had put him at odds with Healer Pinkley. As Albus quite enjoyed Lana’s company, it was for the best that the notion of courtship was dispelled before it could spoil their friendship.

     “I’m flattered by the invitation,” he stalled. “Really, any wizard would be very lucky-”  
  
     Lana folded her arms and fixed him with a disbelieving look. “You can admit it, you know.”

     Albus blinked. He'd been set up. “What am I admitting exactly?”

     “You’re terrified of heights,” she said simply.

     A shock as cold as the waters of the Great Lake rushed through Albus. It was like a brittle, icy hand had him by the throat. Albus could only stand there, struck. He had long ago learned how to take praise- people had been telling him how brilliant he was ever since he turned eleven, but he was unpracticed at this. What glib thing does he say when he has been pinpointed in such a tender spot?

     Dropping her arms, Lana took a step toward him. “You can’t bear for anyone to even talk about it.” Her expression was one of understanding, Albus could see that now. “That’s why you weren’t in quidditch like all the other prefects, and it’s why you turned down Paris.”

     “That’s right.” He nodded and then hung his head, still waiting for the other foot to fall.

     Lana touched his shoulder. “See? It’s not so terrible,” she said. “I don’t know why you hide it, unless you think it’s unmanly or something.”

     “It is a bit,” Albus said miserably.

     “Plenty of wizards don’t fly!” In a flash, Lana pulled out her wand and two stools like the ones at Gladrags appeared beside them along with a little cart set for tea. She pulled on him to sit down. “That’s just in your head,” she said kindly, once they were seated. “My grandfather dreaded heights and he was a third-level Warlock!”

     Albus shook his head. “But it’s not just in my head, it’s real.”

     “You can tell me,” Lana said softly. “We’re friends.”

     She waited for him to go on, but for a long moment the only sound was the lapping of the lake on the shore. There was a little boy in the past somewhere, who would have given anything for his mother to take him seriously like this, or for his sister to have the right words. Only they had really known about the severity of his nightmares, after all, and he’d given up on appealing to his mother for comfort by the time he was school aged. He’d never told anyone outside the family. Not those boys he was closest to like Elphias or Wesley or- Albus quickly cut off that train of thought. He could really only cope with unearthing one secret shame at a time. Lana smiled encouragingly. He decided it was time to come clean.

     “I break out in a sweat,” he said. “I choke until I can’t breathe- I’ve even fainted. It took me weeks to settle down at the castle.” He gestured over his shoulder to Hogwarts, across the lake. “First year, I slept on the couch in the common room rather than up Gryffindor Tower until the Head of House intervened. I took Alchemy instead of Divination because it was taught in the dungeon.”

     “No one should be forced to climb seven flights of stairs just to read tea leaves,” Lana laughed. She waved her wand at the teapot and it poured out for the two of them.

     “Maybe I ought to have,” Albus went on, wondering aloud as he took his tea. He glanced over the rim as he drank to check that he wasn’t overstaying Lana’s sympathy, but her concern was plain as her eyebrows knit together. Now that he was putting voice to his fear, he had more to confess. “I dream about it. All the time, actually. It’s terrible. I’m standing at the edge of a tower. Sometimes I’m pulled or pushed, but it always ends with falling. Professor Imago might’ve had a field day.” The rattle of unsteady cup and saucer surprised Albus. Mercifully, Lana took them both out of his shaking hands and set them aside again.

     "When did it all start?”

     Albus looked at his boots and let out a long exhale. His tea-hot breath fogged around him like an unhappy memory. “When my father was taken away I couldn’t get anyone to tell me what it was like,” he explained. “I wanted to know if he was all right, convict or not. He used to read to me at night, so I read in secret. Every book he had left behind in his library, hoping to stay close to him, somehow. Then I found a passage on Azkaban. An unfindable, towering, rain spattered hellscape patrolled by soul sucking demons, populated by the darkest, most _vile_ of all wizarding kind.” He had dwelled in his discovery for weeks, then months and years, imagining an imprisonment that only worsened the more research he did. By the time the rest of his classmates were studying Dementors for the first time, he had already been losing two nights of sleep a week in fear of them. He built an academic career around being so upstanding, such a model student that a fate like his father’s could never befall him while awake.

     “Merlin’s beard,” Lana gulped.

     “He was basically a good man.” Albus looked Lana in the eye. He needed her to know that was the truth, whatever she might have heard. “He just went to far. We all do, sometimes.” _Oh_ , how Albus knew that to be true. “But he was a good man and they put him away up there, where I’d never see him again.”

     Lana didn’t look away. “I’m very sorry. It must have been terrible to have someone you loved in such a frightening place.”

     “Right,” was all Albus could manage. He started blinking too much and his nose stung. “Thank you.”

     As shrewdly as she had observed his need to talk about what was troubling him, Lana took the cue and started to tidy the tea set while he patted his eyes. It wasn’t the first time Albus had shed tears for his father, but it was the first time since he was a child that he hadn’t felt guilty for them. When he had collected himself again, he stood up to get out of Lana’s way so she might vanish the furniture. Perhaps the temperature had changed in these last few moments, but he felt sure the warm, loose feeling in his shoulders was all his own.

     Lana came up beside him as he looked out at the lake once more and offered him a fresh skipping stone. “What do you say instead of Mumrill’s for New Years Eve, we go dancing at the Three Broomsticks?”

     Albus cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t misunderstand-”

     “I would have liked to go with Garwood, of course,” Lana said, bending to pick up a stone for herself. “But he’s still out of the country.”

     “Garwood? Garwood Malkin?” Albus thought of a sandy haired wizard who had been in Lana’s class at Hogwarts. A sporty type, who’s name had been on many a quidditch plaque by the time of his graduation.

     Her stone bounced along four times and she clapped her hands together with delight. “That’s right. We’re engaged.”  
  
     “I didn’t know that,” Albus said, a bit bewildered. “And Mr. Tupper is usually as good as the Daily Prophet for social news.”

     Lana covered her mouth, clearly embarrassed. “It was announced right around the time you came to the village,” she explained. “We must of lost track if you’d heard.”

     Albus laughed. “No matter. Of course I’ll join you at the Broomsticks if you need a partner. How is Woody? Where is he?”

     “He works with the Department of Magical Transportation now,” Lana said proudly. “He’s in Uagadou while they update the international standards for flying carpets.”

     “Very good.” Albus offered his elbow and they continued their walk.

     They were about a mile away from Hogsmeade Station when it began to snow. The Prophet had only forecasted a dusting so they pressed on, merely altering their path by staying closer to the trees of the Forbidden Forest rather than the shore of the lake. Here, they might trip over the occasional bulging root, but the thick branches overhead kept the flurry from blowing into their eyes. Despite how close they strayed to the wilderness, it was quite still. Any creatures that came this far out of the woods to drink from the lake usually did so by night, and those that did not were all hibernating for the winter.

     Well, maybe not _all_ of the creatures. Something dark shifted behind a knot of trees just a few yards ahead and Albus froze. Lana lurched ahead until her arm hooked in his pulled her short.

     “Why did-”  
  
     Albus drew his wand and squinted, hoping it was a trick of the light on the snow and not an irate centaur or a wolf with a bad internal clock. Whatever it was seemed big, and it would be better to back off than engage with a hungry beast of unknown magical ability. “You didn’t see that?” he whispered.

     In a moment, Lana had her wand out, too. “I don’t see anything,” she hissed.  
  
     “There!” He spotted another movement between the trees, this time more bold. “Right there!”

     Lana looked where he had leveled his wand, but shook her head. “Are you all right?”

     A long, hooked head came out from behind a tree trunk and sniffed the ground. Albus recognized the flash of its milky white eye and lowered his wand with great relief. Without a word to Lana, he pulled around his rucksack and rummaged through it for his lunch. He unwrapped it and held it out in offer. “Goose?”  
  
     “It’s... a goose?” Lana lowered her wand.

     “It’s a thestral!” Albus clucked his tongue like he used to for the chickens they kept when he was a boy. A thestral was a bit like a bird, he thought, so it was worth trying.

     The thestral’s head perked and it sniffed the air.

     “That’s right,” Albus said gently. “I’ll share.”

     Slowly, the thestral stepped out from behind its cover, sniffing and reaching with its long, thin neck. One clawed foot in front of the other, it came close enough to nip from Albus’ hand.

     Lana stood slightly behind Albus and peered around his shoulder as it ate. “They’re domesticated, aren’t they?”

     “Some are.”

     As the lunch was portioned for a man rather than a beast of burden, the thestral quickly finished what meat there was and snorted.  
  
     “Oh!” said Lana, who could hear that, even if she could not see the thestral.

     “You like goose, old fellow?” Albus pet his free hand on the thestral’s snout. It was so much warmer than he had anticipated, and velvety. “I’ll have to remember that in case you might like to come say hello to me again.” He shoved the wrappings from his lunch back into his rucksack and gave the thestral a scratch under the chin with both hands that made its eyes narrow to slits. “Lana, give me your hand.”

     In testament to the trust they had newly established, she did so without hesitation. Albus guided her hand to comb through the mane that wafted along the thestrals neck, as light as cobwebs.

     Lana’s eyes lit up as she ran her fingers through unseen hair. “That’s incredible! It’s not quite as strong as demiguise fur, but so much longer. I imagine you could weave a very fine invisible cloth with this. Has anyone tried?”

     The thestral shook out it wings, as though in objection to having its mane stolen. Albus patted its withers. “I’ve heard of thestral hair wandcores, but I suspect much like unicorns they don’t take kindly to having more than one hair plucked at a time.”

     “No, I don’t suppose I’d like that either,” Lana laughed.

-

     New Years Eve at the Three Broomsticks was as delightful an occasion as Albus dared hope. A folksy group of fiddlers had been hired for the evening (two house elves that stood atop the bar, a tall witch in a tuxedo, and an enchanted, self-playing fiddle) along with a bagpipe, an instrument which he utterly adored. The celebration gave him occasion to wear a new set of silver robes, so he felt rather smart, and then there was dancing, of course, and a surplus of mead that put even the most dour of guests that evening in good spirits. Early in the evening, Albus caught sight of his brother laughing with a pretty witch before Aberforth presumably noticed Albus was present and sought another establishment in which to continue his merrymaking. If he had stayed, it would have been unlikely for them to meet amidst the tumult of the crowd. On the other hand, there were people Albus would have liked to stop and chat with that spun away in dance as quickly as he could recognize their faces. Among the dancers were Lana’s former Hufflepuff classmates Seraphina Smith and Ezekiel Bones, as well as Seraphina’s young brother Orestes who had been in Albus’ year. Somehow, between reels and gallops they all crashed breathlessly into a booth together to toast and to talk.

     “To the year Nineteen Hundred and One!” Ezekiel cried, thrusting up a glass of firewhiskey. They all cheered, and Ezekiel downed it in one and then slammed the empty on the table. He slumped a little. “May I have more luck in persuading Seraphina than I did in Nineteen Hundred.”

     Seraphina batted his arm and rolled her eyes. “I’ve already said yes hours ago, you lump. You’ve just been drunk ever since!”

     “Oh, right!” Ezekiel sat up, wavering to and fro, but smiling. One of his inebriated arms snaked around Seraphina’s shoulders and then before Albus knew it, they were nearly in each other’s laps. On either side, Lana and Orestes leaned away from the soppy couple and toward him instead.

     “So! Have you two made resolutions?” Albus asked blithely, as though something very lurid were not taking place across the table from him.

     Lana held out her glass. “While Garwood and I are engaged... We will never get so sozzled as _that_ in public!”

     Albus and Orestes laughed and raised their own glasses.

     “-But actually,” she continued, “This year I’m determined to get a permit for my own shop in Diagon Alley.”

     “Cheers!”

     Lana dabbed her mouth after drinking. “I’m just waiting to do the paperwork with my married name, so it’s all set and done in one go.”

     “Very sensible,” Albus nodded.

     Orestes swished the liquid at the bottom of his glass from side to side, thinking of his own resolution. “I suppose I should work on being more punctual. Is that enough for a toast?”

     The three clinked and drained their glasses, whether it was or not. Lana signalled to the barkeep, who waved his wand in their direction for a refill round.

     “What about you, Albus?”

     Though there had been plenty of warning this was coming, Albus hadn't quite decided what to say. He’d made such unpredictable leaps and bounds in the past year, it was difficult to imagine where he hoped to be by next New Years Eve. He had so many irons in the fire, any one of them might define the rest of his life. While he was trying to narrow it down, a pair of dancing goblins bumped his chair.

     “Oh! Well, I have some promising research with dragon’s blood,” Albus decided. “This year I should like to publish on the topic!”

     “Cheers!”

     The fiddles struck up another reel. Seraphina and Ezekiel chose that moment to remerge from their embrace and clambered to their feet, tugging Lana’s arm to join them.

     “We waited so long for a table!” she protested, thought it was clear by her grin she would love to rejoin the dance.

     Orestes stuck up a hand. “I’ll hold it!”

     “Thank you!” Lana called, already being spun back into the crowd by Seraphina.

     When it was just the two of them left, Orestes wilted over the table dramatically. “I think I may have filled my yearly dance allotment,” he groaned into the tabletop. “Check back in with me at midnight.”

     Albus chuckled into his glass. “I may take you up on that.”

     Painstakingly, Orestes propped himself up on one wobbly elbow and looked at Albus as though he was examining a wall of hieroglyphics. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

     “Holding the table, same as you.”

     “Pfft. In Hogsmeade, I mean.” Orestes narrowed his eyes. “When I heard you were at St. Mungo’s I thought you’d cure dragon pox or something. Then when you left the hospital it seemed a sure thing you’d finally joined the Ministry. Become the youngest Minister for Magic within a year or two.”

     Did people really keep such a close watch on his comings and goings? He had no idea where Orestes was employed. “Oh, I won’t ever work in government,” he said, lightly. “And besides, I like Honeydukes.”

     “Well sure,” Orestes sat back and crossed his arms. “Anybody would like Honeydukes, but you’re _Albus Dumbledore_!”

     “It’s not all lemon drops and lollipops,” said Albus. He felt defensive in a way he would not have if he hadn’t been drinking. Ordinarily he felt very secure in his abilities and what he did with them. “I have my independent research, of course. And I’ve been tutoring students.”

     Orestes grinned and picked up his drink again. “You were always good at that. If ever I was late to Transfiguration, you were the best one to ask for help.”

     “Is that so?” Albus felt a blush coming on.

     “Come now, your must have noticed your study group was better attended than the class itself.” Orestes raised his glass. “To good teachers!”

     Albus beamed. “Cheers.”

-


	3. Chapter 3

-1901-

     After the surge in demand for Christmas, it was impossible to get a hold of wrapping paper at The Magic Neep well into January. In the meanwhile, Albus made do with old pages of the Daily Prophet, with assurances that there would be new stock in time for St. Valentine’s Day. This was amusing early in the month when outgoing boxes of chocolate were wrapped in headlines that reported the New Year’s Eve windstorm that had knocked over Stonehenge, but became somber when the Muggle queen passed away, ending an era that had lasted for generations. Albus folded the newspaper pages respectfully, so that Victoria’s little portrait was never accidentally halved or obscured by twine. In an enclave like Hogsmeade it was easy to forget how much impact the non-magical world could have on the wizarding, but he knew they would soon be reached by cultural adjustment, even here. By happy chance, the Saturday morning that followed he was awoken by a message from the Neep’s owl that Honeydukes’ order was finally in.

     Albus trudged down the snowy High Street with the groceries and a fresh roll of paper hoisted on his shoulder like a log, mentally calculating how many parcels he ought to be able to complete by lunch. The cold weather had him craving a bowlful of Brews and Stews’ famous Cullen Skink, and he glanced at their storefront longingly. Until that moment he had lost track of when the next weekend with Hogwarts students would be, but there on the stoop between Brews and Stews and Spintwitches doors were a group of familiar, if glum faces. Lottie and Delia sat on either side of Lyle, their arms around his shoulder and patting his back while he sunk into his scarf.

     “Good morning.” He stopped in front of them but only Isambard seemed to notice, perched on Delia’s shoulder. “Thank you for the postcard.”

     Isambard hooted, and the girls looked up.

     “Oh,” said Lottie. “Hello, Duke.”

     “Is everything all right?”

     Delia looked at Lottie before answering, a fire in her eye. “Lyle found some letters over Christmas that their aunt and uncle have been keeping from them. Letters from their grandparents on the other side of family.”

     “Aunt and Uncle Bell have always taken good care of us,” Lottie jumped in. “They must have had their reasons. And the letters were still closed, it’s not like they’ve been reading our mail. Just... Just-”

     “Hiding it!” Lyle huffed. He shoved his sister’s arm off. “I’m sure it has _nothing_ to do with our grandparents being muggles.”

     Albus was starting to get the picture. The Pickering-Bells were not the first halfblood family put at odds over how to engage with their muggle relations. “Family is... difficult,” he said lamely.

     “She’s embarrassed by them!” Delia stood up, causing Isambard to squawk. “Probably embarrassed by having a muggleborn friend, too!”

     “I’m not!” Lottie jumped to her feet. “I’m grateful for everything the Bells have given us. They love us!” She turned to brother who was still sulking on the stoop, her eyes pleading. “Would you rather have been raised by people who couldn’t offer you a library like Uncle’s? Who wouldn’t have known what to do when I came down with dragon pox?”

     “No,” Lyle sniffed, burrowing his nose deeper into his scarf. “I’m not saying I wished we lived with them instead. I just wish they hadn’t given up on us.”

     Lottie frowned, but eased up. Delia backed down, too.

     “Did the letters stop?” asked Albus.

     “The most recent was postmarked years ago,” said Lyle. “But when I found the letters, I sent a postcard back their way and gave them the Hogsmeade Post Office’s address for muggle mail.”

     “It’s been three weeks, so we just went to check if they’d written,” Delia explained. “But there was nothing.”

     “Hmm.” Albus’ groceries were getting a bit heavy. “Well, why don’t you all come in out of the cold? Things always look better on the other side of a warm butterbeer.”

     Isambard flapped into the air, accepting the invitation immediately. Delia and Lottie shrugged and each offered Lyle a hand to pull him up off of the frozen curb.

     “Thanks, chaps.”

     The students helped split the load of groceries and followed Albus the rest of the way down the High Street to Honeydukes, laughing at Isambard as he hopped along from rooftop to rooftop expectantly, kicking up little flurries of snow with each landing. Tupper was already inside when they arrived, counting the till for the start of the business day.

     “G’morning all!” Tupper greeted as they filed in. “What can I do for you?”

     Albus brought up the back and shut the door behind him before the chill could get in. “Actually, Mr. Tupper, they’ll be helping me pack deliveries, if that’s all right?”

     Tupper nodded. “As long as you see that they’re compensated!”

     “He’s promised us butterbeers, sir!” said Delia, already tying back her long blonde hair for optimal industry.

     Albus set them to work on his To-Do list in the cellar while he brewed and baked, and was surprised to discover just how much they had finished by the time he returned. He set the tray of butterbeer tankards and scones on a barrel of Fizzing Whizzbees that was easily dwarfed by the stack of wrapped and addressed packages the students had completed. Delia and Lottie were tying up a few more boxes while Lyle read instructions to an enchanted quill.

     “Miss P. Mussbudget, Eleven Siren Street, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire.”

     “Second to last one, Lyle!” Lottie pitched a small parcel at him. “One deluxe gobstopper.”

     He flinched, but caught it with both hands and then found its recipient on his list. “From Mr. Gawain Corvidius,” he instructed the quill, “-to Mr. Epaphroditus Ector, The Coach House at Armand Manor, Wiltshire.” Lyle squinted at what followed. “And the personal message.... ‘Stuff it, Ector’.”

     Delia giggled and floated Lyle the last box. “That’s a standard Scrumptious Sampler.”

     “From Miss Louetta Flint to Mother, Two Verger Lane, Chippenham.” When the quill was done, Lyle vanished it and placed the box on top of the pile.

     “You three are an enterprising lot!” said Albus. “Anyone for whipped cream?”  
  
     With many a “Yes please!” and a “Yum!” Lottie, Lyle, and Delia seized their butterbeers. They looked so delighted, Albus almost kept from bringing up what he wanted to say in case it might sour the mood. He thought of his own muggle grandparents whom he had never met, and was never likely to meet, now. The knowledge of their exact whereabouts had died with his mother, and America was far too wide a country to search. He had tried locator spells on hair from his mother’s comb, her jewelry, any of her possessions that might lead the way. He had turned the Dumbledore home inside out for any trace of how to contact his grandparents if only to notify them of her death, or- he thought back shamefully, to potentially foist his siblings into their care. It had been a stupid, short lived whim. How would a pair of elderly muggles be able to look after Ariana? And Aberforth was so insular, he would rather live in his goat pen than leave the country.

     Albus shook his head. This wasn’t that. The twins were well cared for. It was more likely that their aunt and uncle simply didn’t know where to start with muggles than that they had some justifiable complaint against their grandparents. Looking at his own family Albus knew well enough that the longer a gap of any kind went unaddressed, the more awkward and impossible it seemed to cross.  
  
     “I wonder, Lyle,” he started carefully, “-if you remember the most recent address for your grandparents?” Perhaps they were distantly located, and they had merely overestimated the abilities of the Royal Mail in the dead of winter.

     “It was...The Pickerings something something Blackwell Road, in Carlisle,” said Lyle. He stared into his butterbeer as though it might remind him. “I have it written down back in the dorm.”

     “It was Two Eighty Six,” said Lottie.  
  
     Lyle’s eyes went wide. “I thought you didn’t care about writing to them!”

     Lottie made no reply, but slurped her drink instead.

     “I see.” Albus had never been to Carlisle, but knew it was only a few miles from the Scottish border. They were right that any letter written immediately following receipt of Lyle’s should have arrived by now. There were other possibilities to factor in, of course. “Did you ever meet them when you were very young, or perhaps see their photograph?”

     “I think we must have,” said Lyle. “Sometimes I remember a man reading me a story that looked very much like our father, but with white hair and glasses.”

     “Glasses?” asked Delia. She looked at Albus with a clever gleam, and he knew she must be thinking along the same lines.

     “And your grandmother? Did she read to you as well?”

     Lottie smiled a far away sort of smile. “She didn’t read to us, but she’d sing lullabies.”

     “Do you think maybe... she couldn’t read?” Delia asked apologetically. “Maybe she relied on your grandfather to read and write, and his eyesight became too poor, or their hands went arthritic or...”

     Lyle and Lottie exchanged a look as they considered this. “It’s certainly possible,” Lyle agreed.

     Albus beckoned Isambard down from the rafters and the owl came to rest on the top of the pile of deliveries. “You know, the Pickering household will have been registered to receive wizarding mail when your father was a boy...”

     “We have to go back to the Owl Office and get a Spokespost!” Lyle stood up like a shot. “With a return envelope! If the letter can speak for itself, then it won’t matter if they’re going blind or can’t read or write!”

     “Excellent,” said Albus, rising from his seat. “My twenty six deliveries and I will join you.”

-

     To while away the cold depths of winter, whenever Albus wasn’t at Honeydukes or helping students, he applied himself to his research. Before he knew it, the signs of spring had come to Hogsmeade and he had a fifty page treatise on dragon's blood. It needed peer review, of course, and to be whittled down for the layman, but he had yet to decide which experts he should invite to read it besides Tupper. While the the man was a master potioneer, it seemed wise to find other editors with strengths in magizoology, hemamancy, and ethics as well.

     As the Forbidden Forest thawed it’s more social creatures emerged and Albus had the pleasure of bumping into the same friendly thestral with which he had shared his Christmas goose. In the mornings Common Brown Snidgets flit from branch to budding branch outside his window, and at night Albus dreamed of the little garden his family had kept in Godric’s Hollow. He smelled sunlight on soil and things growing. He followed a trail of feathers left by Little Alice, a hen he had adopted as housepet in his youth. They lead him into the house, up the stairs, into his room and out of the window onto the porch roof. Little Alice fluttered as he stepped out onto the shingles, shedding more feathers that sparked and caught flame. Albus stood in wonder as she stretched, neck lengthening, wings spreading wide. Feather by feather, her brown plumage turned red and gold and with a powerful flap of her wings she ascended, leaving him behind.

-

     After Easter had passed and chocolate eggs too numerous to count had been sold, Albus made his first trip to Paris on Tupper’s behalf. The storefront for _L’Abeille Miel_ had finally been purchased and was now in the midst of renovation, having formerly been a barber shop. Armed with a folder of schematics, Albus would register the fireplace with the Floo Network and supervise the builders as they made shelving and counters. Though the layout of the shop was more or less decided, paint color and materials were his to choose, and over all, he was looking forward to the experience. The only concerns he had- his apprehension about the sights of the city, had been replaced by his doubts about decoding its sounds. All the French he knew came by way of the prima ballerina turned professor who had lectured his class on dueling form in sixth year. There wasn’t likely to be much call for _rond de jambes_ and _allongé_ while describing wallpaper or sorting out bills with their Parisian suppliers. It seemed silly now that he had prioritized Mermish over learning the language of Britain’s human neighbors.

     He arrived on a Sunday when the builders would not be available, and found himself at the doorstep of an address he had sent many an owl to in the past. As a schoolboy, Albus had struck up a correspondence with Nicolas Flamel, who had lived in the heart of Paris for half a millennia. The home was built into stony medieval ramparts that had somehow been spared by attempts to modernize during the Second French Empire. It’s simple gray lines were ghostly beside the overworked details of the architecture on either side, but Albus liked it. A wizarding home should always seem a bit displaced from regular space and time. He knocked on the low wooden door, preparing to stoop a bit in the eventuality that he was invited inside.

     The moment his hand let go of the door knocker, it’s ring contorted into a smiling pair of lips. “Votre nom s'il vous plait,” it said with it’s metal mouth. “Le maître vient aussi vite que possible.”

     Unprepared to work a Xenoglossy charm, Albus stammered. “I’m sorry, could you repeat, err- répétez?”

     “Ah! Welcome,” the door knocker said, switching to English of its own volition. “Monsieur Flamel will be with you in a moment, may I tell him who has arrived?”

     Albus started to lean toward the door knocker, unsure if he was supposed to speak into it directly or not, but changed his mind half way. “I’m Albus Dumbledore. We’ve been writing to each other about the application of a universal solvent?”

     The door knocker paused for a long moment, its mouth a slight frown. “Very well, please come in.”

     The little wooden door swung open, inviting Albus across the threshold. He stepped through and was surprised to see how mismatched the interior was to the windowless facade. Golden light poured through long, elegant windows that ran from floor to ceiling and cast across an ornately carved table laden with scrolls and glass potion bottles. Some were long, some were short, and those that stood on end created a sort of miniature skyline. A long blue ribbon tied around one scroll snaked through like a river. A shadow fell over this little world as its creator shuffled into the room.

     “Hello Albus. What a surprise,” he said. Nicolas Flamel’s voice was as soft and worn as his pure white robes. His English was only barely accented by French, as though he had been speaking it for a century. On second thought, he probably had spoken it since before Middle English had evolved to Modern.

     “I’m sorry to drop in unexpectedly.” Albus awkwardly shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I should have sent word that I would like a meeting.”

     With a sweep of his wandless hand, Flamel cleared a pair of chairs from their covering of scrolls and took a seat beside the table. “Young man, if I were not interested in meeting many people, I have made a great mistake in living so long.” He gestured for Albus to join him.

     “Thank you Monsieur Flamel,” he said when he was seated. “I’ve come to Paris for a week to manage a new shop in Place Cachée, and I was hoping in the meanwhile you might read a paper of mine.”

     A thin smile formed on Flamel’s ancient face and he steepled his fingers. “How old are you?”

     Albus cleared his throat. “Twenty, sir.” He found that his mouth was very dry, contemplating the folly of his youth compared to a wizard who had already lived thirty times his lifespan. He knew how many worries and he had managed to accumulate in such a relatively short amount of time, and suddenly he felt very silly intruding on someone who must have many, much larger concerns. Perhaps he should excuse himself.

     “Twenty years,” Flamel laughed. It was a light note, barely more than an exhale. “Did you know that in that time, worldwide, there have only been about three thousand new academic texts on magic? I’ve read every thing there is to read, you understand. But there’s been a publishing drought, of late.”

     Though he liked to think of himself as well read, Albus was stunned. The number of languages Flamel would have had to master alone was staggering. “That’s incredible.”

     “I promise you I forget all but the very best, or very amusing.” Flamel closed his eyes and let his head fall back against his chair. He seemed as though he might be asleep for a moment, but then he opened his dark eyes once more. “I will gladly read your paper, as I have so enjoyed your letters.”

     “I’d be honored,” said Albus, swelling with pride.

     After he had given Flamel his writing to look over, the old wizard insisted that Albus stay in Paris as his guest. As he had only planned on conjuring a hammock in the back room of L’Abeille Miel, Albus accepted. After setting down his things in one of the equally golden and airy spare rooms, he took himself for a walk so that Flamel might continue his evening reading undisturbed.

     Cathedral bells rang out six o’clock as he stepped back out onto the street. It would be two hours to dinner, so he might as well explore a bit as long as he turned back in an hour’s time. He wandered toward the low hung sun with only a vague sense of direction, turning this way and that on a whim until he arrived at a wide boulevard lined with young trees. Street lamps glowed between them, becoming the main source of light as as the sun set. Albus looked in shop windows and cafes as he walked, keeping in mind that he would soon be outfitting L’Abeille Miel. Perhaps he could find bubbly light fixtures like that ones in Salon Joué, or paint sinuous gold vines around the door like Hôtel de l'Arabe. Suddenly he noticed something at once unexpected and familiar. Plastered to the wall of Théâtre Robert-Houdin was a poster featuring a wild haired witch, her star-tipped wand held high.

CENDRILLON  
grande féerie extraordinaire  
en 20 tableaux!

     Nearby pamphlets were littered with mentions of séance and illusion that even Albus’ shabby French had no trouble riddling out. It must be a theater for those muggles that did tricks with mirrors and trapdoors. Nothing special, really. He was about to continue walking when he caught sight of another pamphlet that boasted of a ‘ _Spectacle Cinématographique!_ ’. Now _that_ was something else entirely.

     It was very seldom that a muggle invention was so embraced by the wizarding world, when they could conjure running water rather than build plumbing or cast a charm to light their homes. The photograph defied their tendency to reject technology. In Albus’ own lifetime, the camera had become widely available to muggles and then immediately adapted and indispensable to wizards. No longer did one have to rely on the expensive and arduously magical process of portrait painting to make record of a loved one or commemorate an event. Wizard photographs had a life of their own that muggle photographs did not, of course, but he was given to understand that this new cinematograph was closing the gap.

     Albus had to see it for himself. He slid the tip of his wand from out of his sleeve and tapped each ear for a quick translation spell, just in case. At the door, he spied which of the unfamiliar coins was used to pay entry by other theater patrons and then followed them inside.

     Like any auditorium there were rows upon rows of seats, a stage, and long velvet curtains swagging from the ceiling, but there was one feature that stood out from all the others Albus had visited. In the middle of the aisle, not far from the stage was the cinematograph itself. It was a boxy thing that stood up on three wooden legs like a telescope, and was pointed at a white sheet hung from the proscenium. An attendant in a black suit stood by to manage it, nodding politely as the theater-goers pointed and asked questions. Naturally, the seats closest to the fascinating machine had already been taken, but Albus spotted a neglected corner towards the front where he knew he’d get a good view of the show.

     A gentleman escorting a young lady just ahead of Albus muttered something he didn’t understand that echoed back through his spell. “ _Rather drafty_.” The gentleman turned his companion around to take a seat further back. “ _Wouldn’t want you to catch cold, my dear_.”

     “ _No thank you_ ,” the lady agreed with a shiver.

     Seated in the rejected area was a ghost in a powdered wig and silk coat, who sighed forlornly.

     “Good evening,” said Albus, bowing slightly. “Mind if I join you?”

     The ghost startled. “ _You see...? Oh! But of course_.” He patted the chair beside him as the lights in the theater dimmed.

     “Thank you.” Albus sat facing straight ahead and spoke at a whisper so as not to draw attention to his unseen acquaintance. “Albus Dumbledore. Pleasure to meet you.”

     “ _Guillaume Joseph Hyacinthe Jean-Baptiste Le Gentil de la Galaisière_ ,” nodded the ghost.

     “Le Gentil...” That rang a bell. Something to do with a swan, but not a literal swan. Albus thought back to an astronomy textbook. “The Le Gentil that wrote the spellcraft for incantations under the Cygnus constellation?”

     “ _The very same!_ ” Le Gentil primped his lacey collar and cuffs as he delighted in being recognized. “ _Is this your first lantern show?_ ”

     The theater was starting to fill up, and another audience member finally took the seat on the other side of Albus, so he simply nodded. Somewhere in the hidden parts of the stage, an organ began to play a pleasant song and a bright light from within the cinematograph shone onto the blank white surface.

     “ _It’s fantastic_ ,” said Le Gentil. “ _Cinderella is my favorite, so far_ . _The magic is ridiculous!_ ”

     A scene appeared in the light like the interior of a country cottage, gray and drab. A young peasant girl anguished, left behind on the night of the ball by her glamorous sisters. As she wept, the teary drip drop music of her sorrow turned into a mystical tinkle, and the cauldron in the fireplace glowed a brilliant, unnatural orange. It blinked out of existence and was suddenly replaced by the witch from the poster.

     Le Gentil’s ice cold elbow poked Albus in the side. “ _My favorite part is next!_ ”

     The girl turned over a box and three conspicuously large mice ran out, were tapped by the witch’s wand, and- blink! Were enormous! And then tapped again, and they were blue coated coachmen, kneeling on all fours. They hopped up to their feet and brought forth a stool on which the girl placed a pumpkin that the witch instantly charmed to be absolutely tremendous.

     Next to Albus, Le Gentil laughed hysterically. “ _It is so absurd! Can you imagine the sanctions by the International Confederation for such wanton human transfiguration_?”

     Next the witch turned the pumpkin into a carriage, and the girl’s rags into a ball gown. She sent them on their way with a warning to mind the hour and then descended through a trapdoor, which Albus could not help but chuckle at along with Le Gentil. At the rainbow stained ball, the girl was introduced to the prince with whom she danced for exactly eight seconds before she realized in horror that she had lost track of the hour. The pleasant waltz played by the organist turned sinister as her horror was manifested into a bearded wizard jumping out of the clock to harangue her. He leapt about madly and then dropped his guise, becoming the witch once more and stripping away her finery.

     The muggle audience gasped in unison, and all at once Albus felt rather vulnerable. He had forgotten how cruel and capricious their stories tended to make the users of magic. They had no sympathy for the strain such rigorous magic took on the poor witch, or that her contract with the girl had been broken. The organ pounded away as the mad bearded wizard pursued the girl back to her home and tormented her with a bizarre ballet of clocks.

     Le Gentil had nearly slid out of his seat in a fit of hilarity. “ _The clocks! The clocks!_ ”

     With a courtly fanfare, the prince arrived and asked the girl’s sisters if they recognized the shoe she had lost as she fled.

     “ _She’s right there!_ ” Le Gentil roared. “ _She was disenchanted right in front of his eyes, is that not memorable enough for this fool!?_ ”

     At last, the girl proved that the lost shoe fit her foot, and the witch reappeared and generously restored the beautiful gown so that the prince might whisk her away for their wedding. Albus clapped along with the muggle audience, relieved that they had overcome their animosity in the end.

     “ _I love a happy ending_ ,” sniffed Le Gentil. He wiped a ghostly tear from his eye and launched up from his seat to give the show a standing ovation.

     The organ continued to play an interlude as all around Albus the members of the crowd turned to one and other, discussing whether they would stay for the next film in a half hour. If he had not had his own deadline to remember, he would have taken in as many sights as the boulevard had to offer. He bid Le Gentil a good night and followed those who had decided to conclude their evening back out to the street.

     When he returned to Flamel’s house once again, the door knocker recognized him and ushered him through. Inside, the table that had earlier been blanketed in scrolls and potions was now cleared for dinner. A stooped witch as timeworn as Monsieur Flamel stood at the head, conjuring a table cloth and a row of candelabras. A savory smell wafted in from the kitchen, and plates with gilded edges appeared, each framed by perfectly laid silverware. Napkins folded themselves into decorative shapes and came to rest on the plates, and nearby, crystal goblets poured themselves full of wine.

     Albus bowed. “Madame Flamel, thank you for having me to dinner.”

     “Thank _you_ ,” she said wheezily, “-for the excuse to use the good china.”

     Flamel’s chuckle from the hallway reached them before he did. He kept speaking as he inched along, slow and steady. “We don’t often have a full meal unless we have company. At our age the body’s chemistry slows down to a crawl, you understand.” At last he joined them at the table, and pulled out his wife’s chair for her to sit. “You’ve outdone yourself, Perenelle.”

     Perfect rolls of bread appeared when all were seated, and floating dishes of tapenade, butter, and cheese offered themselves to be spread.

     “Did you enjoy your walk?” asked Madame Flamel. “I think the city looks best at twilight.”

     Albus nodded. “I’m so glad I arrived on a Sunday when I could spend some time exploring. I managed to take in a show at one of the theaters, too.”

     “Opera?” Flamel looked up from his buttering knife hopefully.

     “You should invite Albus to our box at the Palais.”

     “It was a film, actually,” he clarified. “And I ran into the ghost of Guillaume Le Gentil. Do you know him?”

     “We know every ghost in Paris,” Madame Flamel said proudly. “And half the vampires.”

     “Guillaume and I have had a chess game going. One move at a time, every August 15th since the year he died,” said Flamel.

     Albus squinted. “You’ve been playing one game of chess for over a hundred years?”

     “Oh no, no,” Madame laughed. “They’re in the middle of their second game, right now.”

     Over dinner, the Flamels filled in Albus on the tragic history of Guillaume Le Gentil, who had flaunted the International Statute of Secrecy in its early days to join an expedition of muggle astronomers calculating the distance to the sun by observing the transit of Venus. His rival, Vaudibert Goré, was disgusted by Le Gentil’s refusal to withdraw from the Royal Academy of Science where he shared his discoveries with wizard and muggle alike. As the French Ministry for Magic had not yet been established, Goré had little means of official recourse. Instead he jinxed Le Gentil with terrible luck. Wind, war, and weather kept him not only from returning home in a timely fashion, but from observing the transit at all. He returned home to Paris after eleven years at sea to discover that his place at the Academy had been lost, he had been declared dead, and his wife had remarried to none other than Goré. As the transit of Venus only occurs in cycles one hundred and twenty one years apart, when Le Gentil finally died his ghost lingered in hopes of seeing Venus in the next.

     It was a sort of single-mindedness that disturbed Albus. Not that he was appalled, per se, it was just that he couldn’t think of anything he wanted badly enough to wait a century for, living or dead. He wasn’t sure if that pointed to some weakness of Le Gentil’s, or a fault of his own imagination. What noble pursuit would he sacrifice his acclaim for? What was worth years of his life and love, even if he failed?

     Before his trip to Paris, Albus had imagined staying on at Honeydukes indefinitely. He would take care of things in the Hogsmeade shop and have the freedom to continue his research projects. Tupper would train new staff at L’Abeille Miel, as had always been the plan, and then in time look towards other possibilities for expansion. When he returned from his trip, something shifted.

     For all his initial reluctance, he had been charmed by Paris. It felt full of opportunities in a way that London had never done. In both the wizarding and muggle sides of the city there were artists and inventors and uses of magic unlike any he had seen before. Flamel had been nothing but encouraging, and insisted that Albus return someday as an apprentice. He nearly floored Tupper by offering to become the permanent shopkeeper at L’Abeille Miel.

     “I know all of the recipes,” he reminded Tupper. “And I’ll pick up the language quickly, if I hire local help. Nicolas Flamel has already offered me a room to stay-”

     “Albus, my dear boy,” said Tupper, holding up his hands for quiet. “You should think on it a little longer.”

     “I have!”

     Tupper smiled kindly and sighed. “Every witch or wizard that ever travelled abroad for the first time wishes they could stay, believe me. I do think you’re capable of running the shop- you're capable of  _anything_ , so you do _everything_. Make sure you’re not running away just because you’ve never stayed put.”

     Albus’s cheeks burned. He hadn’t been called out like that since Aberforth had stopped speaking to him, but Tupper was right. Within a year of leaving Hogwarts he had come and gone from St. Mungo’s, and another year on, he was prepared to come and go from Hogsmeade as well. Would he feel compelled to leave Paris just as quickly? If his family had not held him back, he might have been through a dozen countries by now, always on the move. Perhaps he was more like Le Gentil that he realized, transfixed on the horizon instead of all that lay before him.

     “Anyway...” Tupper patted his shoulder. “We won’t have the permits in order to open in Paris until the summer. You don’t have to decide today.”

-

     A few weeks later Albus got wind of a muggle Highland Fair that would be taking place in a neighboring village over the weekend. It was a few miles walk, but there would be traditional heavy games to spectate as well as an arcade, rides, and music. The fair was just the sort of thing Albus liked about living in the Scottish countryside, so he supposed he owed it to himself to visit before trying to decide about Paris. It happened to coincide with a Hogsmeade weekend at the school, but as exam period had begun the majority of students were opting to revise rather than take advantage of their privileges, so Tupper gave him leave to investigate.

     The way to Inchcroft was nearly all down hill, in the opposite direction of the Great Lake. Albus followed the High Street to it’s dodgy end, where the Forbidden Forest had refused to be cut back, and reclaimed the few structures that had dared to be built in its domain. The woods that surrounded the road out of Hogsmeade were a perfect camouflage to any muggle drivers that might have taken a wrong turn. Tree roots had long since been enchanted to overgrow and make the way impassable for any but a witch or wizard. Albus cleared the path with ease. As he passed through the forest he kept an eye out for wolves, but instead spotted a more friendly creature.

     “Goose!”

     The thestral trotted up to Albus, standing in the middle of the road, wings flapping in excitement. He dug in his pocket for a some nuts to offer, and stroked Goose’s withers affectionately.

     “I’m walking to Inchcroft. Seeing as you can’t be seen anyway, you’re welcome to join me. I could get you some roast meat at the fair.”

     With a snort, Goose dipped his head in understanding.

     Together they continued down through the hills until the magical forest was behind them, and only ordinary trees grew. The weather was refreshingly warm, so that by the time Inchcroft was in sight Albus had already taken off his jacket and slung it over one arm. Soon the marque of the fairground was legible, its large blue letters declaring the 1901 Inchcroft Fair, and after a few minutes more the sounds of a pipe band came to them on the breeze. As they drew closer, Albus caught sight of the shot putters and the caber tossers, balancing their logs. A burly man half of Albus’ height and twice his width flipped his caber in the air to applause. Thinking of the concussion he would surely cause himself if he attempted such a feat, Albus held back with Goose.

     “You can stay,” he told the thestral. “Just keep your distance from the crowd and the cabers, and I’ll get you a treat.”

     Albus waded into the excitement. Hundreds of people were jostling about, laughing, singing, and moving like schools of fish. The whole town must have showed out. There were booths for the local groups, like the church and veterans, and booth where one could guess the weight of a hog. In every direction there were stalls selling locally made goods. There was one draped in lace that he would have to remember, as it might offer a fine wedding gift for Lana and Garwood. For a chance to win a prize and test one’s aim, there were darts, a ring toss, and milk bottles. Delicious smells surrounded him, competing for his attention along with the barkers for the rides. There was a cart ride for the faint of heart, three penny farthings, and most of all- a twenty foot tall pleasure wheel. Children marveled at the donkey that powered the wheel and wrestled in the hay set aside to feed it. People eager to take a ride were lined up six or seven booths deep, waiting their turn. Despite his improved disposition towards heights, Albus would probably sit that one out. It was nice to know he didn’t feel queasy just looking, at least. The riders at the top of the wheel waved down to the crowd, and he couldn’t help but smile and wave back along with the other people watching from the ground.

     “That’s a philosophical hand if e’er I saw,” said a man at a nearby both. He was young and darkly handsome but had rather spoiled his looks with a false moustache and beard and a tacky scarf tied about his head. “Care ta have your palm read by Sidney the Strange for a shilling?”

     Albus stopped waving and plunged his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think so, thank you.”

     “What about for free?” the fortune teller asked in a whisper. He looked at Albus imploringly. “I’ll get people in’erested if they see someone else get a reading.”

     “You can’t possibly be worse at it than I am,” Albus sighed, and sat down on at the table.

     Sidney the Strange took his hand and started to trace the lines and mounts with showy determination. “Hmm, aye! A firm mount o’ Jupiter... and look here at the Ring o’ Solomon! I see you’ll be _very_ wealthy,” he laughed to himself. “Don’t forget Sidney the Strange when you come into your fortune! And your Life Line-”

     “That’s the Head Line,” Albus corrected.

     Sidney prickled. “Well either way, you’re bound ta be influential,” he said, dark eyes narrowed. Rather nice eyes, Albus thought to himself.

     Chastened for being a poor sport, he decided he ought to play along. It wasn’t every day he had pretense to hold hands with a handsome muggle, after all. What would it hurt? “Oh, yes, I see!” he said excitedly. His declaration caught the attention of a passing family, who stopped to see what was happening.

     Sidney tapped his hand with a fingertip, as though he were getting some sort of rhythmic impression from it. “Mmm... Perhaps a future in the gover’ment,” he supposed. “One day Sidney the Strange will tell the tale o’ how he shook the hand o’ the most powerful man in Inverness! No! _All Britain_!” An elderly gentleman who had stopped to watch clapped his hands. “Congratulations, Mister Future Prime Minister!”

     Albus clenched his teeth and nodded.

     “Now your heart line, let me see...” Sidney shook his head. “Oh dear.”

     “Bad news?”

     A lady bystander tutted sympathetically.

     “You’re a terrible flirt, looks like. Two, three lasses at a time. All with freckles.”

     Albus faked a gasp. “You know all that, just by a little line!?”

     More people broke out into applause. Sidney winked at him and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Sidney the Strange knows many things!” He stood up and pointed to one of the women in the crowd. “And he will know you, too, for a shilling!”

     “My word!” she exclaimed.

     “This has been very illuminating,” said Albus, rising from his seat again. “Thank you.”

     When he turned back to the row of amusements, he spotted just the thing he had come for. There was a long wooden alley laid out for bowling at the far end of the fair. He locked eyes and moved toward it, weaving in and out of the crowd. Careless as he was, a boy collided with him and fell to his behind.

     “Sorry sir!”

     “My mistake,” said Albus, helping the boy up. He was shocked to see the Gryffindor crest on the boy’s waistcoat. “Hogwarts,” he blurted, unthinking.

     “Shh!” The boy took off again into the throng.

     Well, he supposed it figured that not every student prioritized revising for their exam. It was forbidden to use Hogsmeade weekend to go anywhere else, of course, but it wasn’t like Albus was the authority for such things. The boy was probably just a muggleborn feeling homesick for life beyond the castle.

     Albus noticed Goose lingering at a distance and pointed after the boy. “Keep an eye open for students, will you?”

     Goose tilted his knobbly head, not understanding. He probably was more focused on the snack Albus had promised but not yet delivered. On his way toward the bowling, Albus made sure to purchase a turkey leg from one of the booths and toss it toward him while no one was looking.

     There were only two or three other people seriously interested in repeat bowling, so as they took turns, Albus managed to get in nearly thirty frames before the sun started to set. He thanked the barker as he started to pack in for the night, then stood back to watch as lamps were lit throughout the fairgrounds. It was just as pleasant as the boulevard in Paris, he thought.

     Nearby, a little girl tugged her mother’s skirt and pouted. “Ma, when are the fireworks?” she asked, but the mother ignored her and simply pulled the child along.

     He had considered rounding up Goose to head back home, but that settled it, if there were fireworks upcoming, Albus would have to see them through. The muggle members of the crowd all seemed to be in the know, and started to move out towards the caber toss field, so he ambled along behind them, happy to let it all unfold.

     “Hey! Mister Future Minister!” called a voice.

     Albus turned to look and realized he was again passing the booth of Sidney the Strange, who had now removed his costume. He stopped and smiled back, thinking he might go ahead give the man a shilling after all.

     “Hello again.”

     “Can I buy you a pint?” asked Sidney. “Thanks ta your demonstration I made a bundle!” He patted his breast pocket, which indeed appeared very full.

     “Uhm.” Albus blanked. He liked the way Sidney’s dark hair curled when he wasn’t wearing that silly scarf. “Yes,” he said quickly.

     “Great!” said Sidney. He circled around his little table and nodded for Albus to follow him between booths to the next row where there were refreshments. They popped out between a vacant pie stall whose operator had joined the fireworks crowd and a stack of barrels. “Two, if you don’t mind,” he said to old woman scrubbing tankards with a rag.

     “I do mind, Sid!” She whipped the rag at him. “I’m trying ta pack up for the night.”

     He dropped a few coins in the tankard she was holding. “Aye, and we’ll clean up after ourselves, won’t we? You can get ta your fireworks.”

     “Fine.” The woman poured the coins from the tankard to her apron pocket and then filled it and another at the tap. She set them down on the counter so forcefully that suds sloshed down the sides. “And turn the stools when you’re done!” In a huff she head off toward the field.

     Sidney snickered into his beer. “Aw, she’s all right, my aunt.”

     “Thanks.” Albus raised his drink.

     “Oh, it’s my honor, Mister Future Minister,” Sidney toasted him back. “What’s your name, anyway?”

     “Albus.” It didn't occur to him to lie or go by Duke, as he found himself disarmed. He had just noticed how the glue from Sidney the Strange’s false beard had left an endearing pink mark on his chin.

     “You're not from Inchcroft. Where’re you from, Albus?”

     “I only came by for the fair, I’m afraid.”

     “Dooly Bridge, then?”

     “No. More West than that.”

     “Smythick?”

     Albus shook his head.

     Sidney pressed on, undeterred by his tight lipped company. “And what do you do, besides dodge questions?”

     Albus laughed. Now that he could comfortably answer. “I work in a confectionery shop. Lots of chocolates. Drops and lollipops, too.”

     “Really?” Sidney nodded, clearly impressed. “You should ‘o had a booth at the fair!” He thumbed over his shoulder at the other stalls, now mostly deserted.

     The whistle and pop of rockets sounded in the distance, but Albus didn’t look away from Sidney. Flashes of light from the sky kept turning his hair blue and flickering in his eyes. Was it terrible that he might like Sidney to take his hand and try again to figure him out?

     “Maybe next year,” said Albus.

     “I swear ta be better with palms by then.” Sidney covered his heart in oath. “Sidney the Strange was a lark. If I’m honest, I just like ta make up the stories.”

     Albus chuckled. “I admit your story was exciting, if entirely fictitious.”

     “Well o’ course, that reading was for the other people. _They_ all want ta hear how rich and important they could be.” Sidney put his tankard down and held out his hand. “Do you know what _you_ want ta hear?”

     “What?” Another burst of fireworks made Albus’ heart pound. His hands felt clammy, so he wiped his hand on his trouser before he offered it again.

     Leaning closer to inspect, Sidney ran his fingers across his palm and hummed. “This hand has a history,” he said ominously. He glanced up at Albus and raised an eyebrow. “Miraculous, some say. You’ve performed _powerful_ feats.”

     Albus cleared his throat. “Oh?”

     “Aye, these three fingers are telling me.” Sidney tapped his thumb, index, and middle finger. “They tell me...you came here ta bowl.”

     “I was at that booth all evening! You must have noticed me,” Albus laughed.

     Sidney’s face was bathed in another blue flash as he grinned. “See? That’s what you wanted-”

     But he was interrupted by the cry of a bird. They both looked up as an owl dove towards them, toppling onto the table and knocking their drinks over.

     “Isambard?” Albus recognized. “What are you doing here?”

     “Do you smell that?” Sidney jumped off of his stool.

     Albus whipped around looking for one of the students Isambard would likely be spotted with, but instead he saw a streaks of orange two rows away. “Fire!”

     In a flash, Sidney dove under the table to grab his aunt’s wash bucket. Before he stood up again Albus had already slid out his wand and ran between the booths. He sprinted down the row, Isambard sailing along beside him. He could hear shouting and the bray of a frightened animal. One of the rockets must have gone astray into the donkey’s hay. He skidded to a stop a few yards apart from flames that had already matched his height. They licked at the base of the pleasure wheel, feeding on its timber. The whole structure creaked with strain.

     “Aguamenti!” He cast the spell and aimed his wand at the root of fire. “Maxima!” Albus grit his teeth, knowing he didn’t have long before Sidney would catch up to him.

     “We need ta get help!” A splash of water flew past Albus, and then Sidney was standing beside him. “Where’s the barker?” he panted. He looked around frantically and then noticed Albus, working his spell. “Holy Mary!”

     Although the fire was not yet doused, Albus cut off his water charm. “I’m sorry, I have to do this.” He leveled his wand at Sidney. “Confundus!”

Sidney stumbled back and collapsed on the ground. He was far enough from the fire, he’d be fine if Albus got control of it. He would forget ever meeting Albus, though he might think he’d come up with a fantastical story in a dream. Albus’ heart sank. There’d be no coming back to Inchcroft after this.

     Isambard swooped down on Albus again, still in a fury. Albus batted him away and cast Augamenti again. “Calm down!” He almost had the fire beat, there were just a few pockets of flame up on the wheel. With his pecking going ignored, Isambard hooted and rushed at the wheel, racing to the top. It was misshapen there, like part of the ride had fallen off. Isambard winged higher into the sky, still shrieking. Then Albus saw- the ride hadn’t collapsed, it had broken off into the sky! Three young faces peeked over the edge of the runaway bench and there was no mistaking Delia’s blonde hair, trailing behind. The boy he’d knocked over earlier wasn’t the only Hogwarts student on the loose in Inchcroft, after all.

     “Goose!” Albus shouted for the thestral. “Goose where are you!”

     With one last burst he put out the fire, then rushed forward to make sure the barker and donkey were all right, casting healing charms at will. Albus looked up at the sound of pounding hooves that were not the ones he had just calmed. Goose charged towards him, head low and determined.

     “I need your help!” Albus threw both arms around the thestral’s neck and Goose kneeled for him to mount. “Go! Before I change my mind!”

     With a powerful flap of his wings, Goose leapt into the air. Albus held tight to his wand and the knobbly beast in front of him as they climbed upward, past the booths, past the top of the pleasure wheel, into mid air. They were a hundred feet up before they came within shouting distance of the students.

     Lottie saw him first. “We can’t stop it, Duke!”

     “I assumed!” Careful not to look down, Albus reached an arm as far out as he could, but he couldn’t quite get hold of the bench without being knocked off Goose. Even if he did, Goose couldn’t fit four people on his back.  
  
     Delia sobbed. “I just wanted to get us out of danger! It was just a Featherlight charm!”

     “A powerful one,” said Albus calmly. “Well done. Don’t break it. I’ll have to tow you all down with it.” Somewhere away from the fairgrounds, hopefully. The fireworks show had ended, if they were very lucky none of the muggles were still watching the sky, but it seemed a slim chance. He accidentally looked down at the ground below, and it knocked the wind out of him.

     “Tow?” Lyle pointed his wand toward Goose. “Should I cast a rope?”

     “No!” gasped Albus. He had to keep his wits about him. He had to focus on minimizing the danger and the exposure, proud as he was of Lyle’s quick thinking and conjuration. “No more underage magic. Incarcerous!” At once, three thin cords shot out from his wind and looped around the bench.

     Lottie took hold of the two ropes closest, for good measure. “Everyone, hold tight!” she shouted. Isambard stopped spiraling around the bench and landed in Delia’s lap.

     Instinctively, Goose began to descend. They soared through the night toward a ridge beyond the Inchcroft fair. As they flew, Albus trained his eyes only on his wand and the bench it was tethered to. It was all going to be fine. There’d be trouble, certainly, but no one was irreversibly hurt. At last they came low enough.

     “Finite!”

     The ropes dissolved and Delia’s lightening charm broke, causing the bench to thud to the mossy ground. Eager to get the earth back under his feet, Albus vaulted off of Goose and caught his breath.

     “That was amazing!” Lyle scrambled to his feet and helped his sister off of the bench. “Now I see what you love about flying!”

     “That’s brooms,” said Lottie, breathlessly. “I’d love to ride a thestral.”

     Delia squinted. She was holding Isambard tight as a teddy bear and smoothing his feathers to soothe herself. “Is that what that was?”

     Having now recovered, Albus stood up straight and glared at the three of them. “I’m surprised at all of you!” He surprised himself, with his anger. “Rule breaking instead of studying for your exams!”

     The students were struck quiet. Lyle looked like he might cry, but instead was the first to speak. “It was wrong of us to leave Hogsmeade,” he admitted. “But our practice exams had gone so well, we wanted to thank you for all your help.”

     Delia hung her head. “Mr. Tupper told me you had gone to Inchcroft for the day, so-”  
  
     “-It was my idea to come!” Lottie interrupted.

     “No, it was mine,” Delia sighed.

     Albus shook his head in disappointment. “I’m sure skiving off to go to a fair had nothing to do with it.”

     “Delia didn’t tell us there was fair,” said Lyle.

     “I thought it would be a nice surprise,” she said, tucking her face into Isambard’s feathers. He hooted in sympathy.

     “Surprise is one word for it.” Albus crossed his arms.

     Lottie put her arm around Delia’s shoulder. “We all agreed to come. When we got here we couldn’t find you in the crowd, all day. So we went on the wheel to see if we could spot you from the top.”

     “The barker was so kind to let us ride, although the fair had ended,” Delia blubbered into Isambard. “Is he all right, Duke?”

     “He’ll mend,” Albus said, clipped.

     Lottie and Lyle tried to consol Delia, petting her hair and offering handkerchiefs. Albus could see that they all felt bad enough without him laying in. It was bizarre being on this end of a scolding, but he wouldn't bother if he didn't care for their well being. He tried to think of what he might have needed to hear, if it had been him and his friend who had had such a fright.

      “The fire was not your fault. And I don’t think anyone saw your magic.” It was unfortunate that he couldn’t say the same for himself. Still, he had covered their tracks well enough. Aside from punishment for a broken curfew, there weren’t likely to be Ministerial consequences.

     “I’m sorry,” Delia said, turning to her friends. “We’ll probably get our privileges revoked. I’m sorry to you, too, Duke. We put you to such trouble. And now we might not get to see you in Hogsmeade ever again.”

     It was a pity. They had been his favorite members of the study group. “You can still write,” he said, already promising himself he would always return an owl in a timely fashion, so they needn’t fret that he didn’t care. “Listen, I’m glad you’re all safe. I don’t doubt you would have gotten yourselves out of trouble one way or another, but until you’re not liable to get yourselves arrested for underage wizardry in order to do so... please be careful.”

     "Sorry, Duke," said the twins.  
  
     Albus turned to Goose and patted him in thanks. “You should head home on your own. I’ll take them back.” The beast flapped its wings once more and took off into the night. Albus offered his elbows for the students to take hold. “Come on. It’s late. I don’t envy you explaining yourselves to the groundskeeper.”

     They all swarmed him in a hug instead and disapparated together.

-

     The following Monday, Albus was sprinkling trays of fudge when a familiar old wizard in red robes swept through the door of Honeydukes.

     “Mr. Dumbledore,” he said in a low voice.

     “Good morning.” Albus wiped his hands on his apron and gulped down a vestigial case of nerves for having been surprised by one’s old teacher.

     Basil Fronsac had been Hogwarts Headmaster throughout Albus’ youth, and had personally awarded him for exceptional spell-casting at his graduation just a few short years ago. But Headmaster Fronsac belonged in a castle surrounded by books, not here. He seemed smaller now, and strange in the midst of Honeydukes’ pink interior.

     The old wizard regarded Albus carefully, then stuck out his wand to push aside Albus’ necktie to examine the embroidery on his apron. “So _you’re_ the ‘Duke’ I keep hearing about, aren’t you?”

     “Some of the students call me that, sir.”

     Fronsac nodded, his expression unreadable. “Students who you’ve taught N.E.W.T. level conjuration and how to saddle a wild thestral?”

     “They were never _on_ the thestral, sir,” Albus pointed out. “Just pulled by it.”

     “Of course.” Fronsac leaned to examine the chocolate cauldrons in the glass counter then began circling the store, examining the inventory. He chuckled at a display of color changing sugar quills, then turned around again. “Albus, I wonder what your plans for the future are?”

     He had been wondering the same. Paris looked likely, but he had to admit it wasn’t a permanent move- he would miss Hogsmeade too much. Albus shrugged. “I’m publishing on dragon’s blood this summer. And I may take up Nicolas Flamel on an apprenticeship in alchemy, but I haven’t decided.”

     “Good, good.” Fronsac selected a sugar quill from the display and put it down on the counter by the til. “You should. Take your time, then when you’re back, come see me about a position.”

     “Sir?”

     “Any subject you like,” said Fronsac, peering down into one of his pockets and drawing out a few knuts. He laid them out on the counter, as Albus did not move to take them by hand.

     “Or make up your own. Merlin knows we could use fresh defense curriculum.” The bell over the door tinkled as Fronsac opened it again to leave. “Just mind you take me up on the offer before I retire. We’ll get you a contract Professor Black can’t break if and when he succeeds me.”

 

 

-1947-

Dear Duke,

     Or is it Professor? As you know I never get things right, or else I wouldn’t have lost my Hogsmeade privileges. Ha ha.   
Glad to hear you’re well. Just wanted to make sure you saw the new chocolate frog card. _Your_ chocolate frog card. I kept another for myself, of course, and I’ll never trade it to Charlotte, no matter how she begs.

     Yours,  
     Delia Pluckrose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the next chapter for art of Dumbledore, Lana, and the Cendrillon poster!
> 
> Check out the other fic in this series for more St. Mungo's and Grindeldore!
> 
> Thank you to StarMaple, who gave me the idea for there being a resident ghost at the theater. I considered making it Robert-Houdin himself (the magician who codified Magicians Wear Tuxes, and whom Houdini named himself after!) but felt that his contributions to illusion as an art form were too great to diminish by claiming he was a historical wizard, after all. Le Gentil is a real historical person I've long been fascinated by, but did not in fact have a wizard rival (that I know of), just dreadful, dreadful luck.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [follow my art blog on tumblr!](https://www.stitchyarts.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Lana is Madam Malkin, that's just her married name ;)


End file.
